


Metanoia: The History Behind Us

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Connor, Coming of Age, Descriptions of battle, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Feelings Realization, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Underage Romantic Content, Power Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Service Top, Top Hank Anderson, War, roman soldiers, some blood and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 07:59:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20404336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Sharp brown eyes linger on the soldiers carousing in thepopina. It wasn’t their usual scene given the number of peasants that frequented it, but, after weeks of heavily wateredposca, the promise of strong wine was enough to lure them inside. The clattering of claycalixcups rings out just as loud as the soldiers’ demands for more drink. Connor wonders if the soldiers know they’re drinking their wine neat like the barbarians of the north do. All the better for him. The faster they get drunk, the quicker he can be done with his unpleasant task.While the people of the town cringed away from the broad men in shining breastplates, Connor was more than happy about their arrival. Soldiers heavy with drink weren’t as likely to notice a few missing coins as penny-pinching peasants were. He’s wrist-deep in the folds of a laughing soldier’s tunic when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.__This is my fic for the Reverse Big Bang! It features art from the talentedHumblebee!To reemphasize the tags, this fic contains zero underaged romantic content. Historical terms included at the start of each chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharp brown eyes linger on the soldiers carousing in the _popina_. It wasn’t their usual scene given the number of peasants that frequented it, but, after weeks of heavily watered _posca_, the promise of strong wine was enough to lure them inside. The clattering of clay _calix_ cups rings out just as loud as the soldiers’ demands for more drink. Connor wonders if the soldiers know they’re drinking their wine neat like the barbarians of the north do. All the better for him. The faster they get drunk, the quicker he can be done with his unpleasant task. 
> 
> While the people of the town cringed away from the broad men in shining breastplates, Connor was more than happy about their arrival. Soldiers heavy with drink weren’t as likely to notice a few missing coins as penny-pinching peasants were. He’s wrist-deep in the folds of a laughing soldier’s tunic when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  
__
> 
> This is my fic for the Reverse Big Bang! It features art from the talented [Humblebee](https://twitter.com/humblebeex2)!
> 
> To reemphasize the tags, this fic contains zero underaged romantic content. Historical terms included at the start of each chapter.

**Metanoia: **the journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life  
**Popina**: an ancient roman wine bar for the lower classes  
**Posca**: extremely watered down wine that soldiers drank when traveling (1 part wine, 3 parts water-ish)  
**Calix**: a clay bowl/cup for drinking wine in public establishments  
**Quadrans**: a bronze coin of little worth by itself  
**Caliga/caligae**: the singular and plural forms of the sandals Roman soldiers wore; they had spikes/nubs on the bottom  
**Semis**: another bronze coin worth twice a quadrans  
**Caupona**: an inn for travelers to obtain food and lodging  
**Insulae**: an apartment building with a store in the front. The owners live above or behind the store.  
**Baxa**: a type of sandal that is cheap to make. It’s usually made with vegetable leaves, palm leaves, twigs, etc.   
**Danduti**: a trade post in ancient Rome. It is modern day Denmark.  
**Pilum**: a roman javelin  
**Pedes**: paces; it’s about a foot long  
**Civitas**: being/becoming a Roman citizen, which was a huge deal back then.   
**Anaticula**: term of endearment; it means little duck

Sharp brown eyes linger on the soldiers carousing in the _popina_. It wasn’t their usual scene given the number of peasants that frequented it, but, after weeks of heavily watered _posca_, the promise of strong wine was enough to lure them inside. The clattering of clay _calix_ cups rings out just as loud as the soldiers’ demands for more drink. Connor wonders if the soldiers know they’re drinking their wine neat like the barbarians of the north do. All the better for him. The faster they get drunk, the quicker he can be done with his unpleasant task.

While the people of the town cringed away from the broad men in shining breastplates, Connor was more than happy about their arrival. Soldiers heavy with drink weren’t as likely to notice a few missing coins as penny-pinching peasants were. He’s wrist-deep in the folds of a laughing soldier’s tunic when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

No cry of outrage comes so Connor finishes the job quickly, scuttling away with three bronze _quadrans_. Worth little to a soldier, it meant walking less closely to the line of starvation for Connor. He’s less than three steps out the door when a large hand clamps down on his shoulder. He knows better than to scream or flee. No one would come to his aid and beatings from soldiers were always worse when the thief tried to turn tail and run. He’s small, hungry, and too weak to fight what’s coming to him.

Glancing up to see who’s caught him red-handed, his blood runs cold when he sees the transverse crest on the man’s helmet. A centurion. Connor drops to his knees on instinct, prepared to beg for his life. It was a hard life, a distinctly and often unfair life, but it was his.

“Please, sir. I’m—” he stops speaking abruptly when the man crouches down to eye level. His flaxen hair and beard are so pale they’re nearly white. He’s young to be a centurion, thirty years at most, and Connor wonders how the man achieved that rank before he reminds himself he has bigger things to worry about.

The man has clear blue eyes that seem to reflect the sky. Connor can’t remember the last time he’d seen someone with such fair features. His own dark hair and dark eyes were more the norm even if he was paler than most of the peasants despite so much time spent outdoors. His mother had been fair, too—the only resemblance he bore to her if anyone had cared to pay attention to such things. It’s hard to remember her after so many years.

The man regards him with a piercing, calculated gaze. He’s huge, larger than Connor’s own father had been and Connor had thought him to be a giant. Angry tears prick at the backs of his eyes at the memory of his father, long gone, and the horrendous years that had followed his death.

If he hadn’t died, Connor wouldn’t be here now. He wouldn’t be cowering under this blue-eyed giant’s stare. He wouldn’t be forced to steal, something he’d been raised to understand was reprehensible and only for the wicked. He wills himself not to cry. He’d learned the hard way that soldiers don’t have sympathy for boys who shed tears. He’d be more likely to see the bottom of the man’s spiked _caliga_ if he wept.

So he remained on his knees, fighting the tremble on his bottom lip, and darting his eyes to try and spread the moisture gathering there before it could spill. He can’t help but flinch when the soldier grabs him by the chin.

“Show me your hands.” There’s no mistaking the command in the man’s voice and Connor complies immediately. Unfolding his fist, the bronze coins stick up between his fingers like flags of surrender.

The centurion eyes them hard before asking, “Why did you take these?”

Connor’s shallow breathing makes immediate speech difficult and the first words come out on a wheeze, “I…I have to, sir.” He knows he should cast his eyes down in deference, but he can’t stop staring at the massive man and his azure gaze.

The centurion shakes his head at the answer before collecting the coins to study them further, “Have to? They’re hardly worth your life.”

Panic at the implied threat nearly consumes Connor, but he forces it down. If the centurion decides he’s to die for his crimes, no one will mourn his passing. He has to explain. He needs at least one person to know his predicament—

“I should think so,” a deep, displeased voice booms from behind the crouched centurion. Connor recoils away on instinct, scraping his knees in the process. The soldier narrows his eyes, taking in Connor’s cringing terror. Rising on sandaled feet, the soldier faces down a man Connor’s learned to obey without hesitation for fear of a beating or worse.

“Is the boy yours?” Connor can hear the uncertainty in the soldier’s voice and he finds himself wishing not for the first time that Zlatko would tell the truth, that someone would intervene. In his time indentured to the man, all he’s learned of him is his surname and how fast he is moved to violence.

“The brat is mine, yes. I sent him not less than an hour ago to market and look at him—stealing!” Turning his gaze upon Connor, they glitter like malicious beetles, “I should flay you here, boy. Stealing from a centurion. The nerve.”

Connor tries to protest, all too familiar with Zlatko’s lash. The soldier beats him to it, “He wasn’t stealing from me. He stole from one of my men.” The man uncurls his sizeable fist and displays Connor’s paltry haul.

“Three _quadrans_?” Zlatko bellows at Connor, spittle flying from his thick, unpleasant lips. Folding further in on himself, Connor sees the soldier reposition his feet. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the man was trying to place himself between Connor and his screaming tormentor without the heavy-set man’s notice.

Even so, the centurion remains silent as Zlatko continues his verbal dress down, “What were you thinking? How many times do I have to whip it into your thick hide—” The longer Zlatko raves, the more heavily Connor goes numb with dread. He doesn’t want to steal, he doesn’t want to die of starvation on the streets, but he can’t keep living like this. A mental dam breaks and tears gush hot and fast like a volcano spewing liquid red agony.

Zlatko’s ire increases ten-fold at the sight, “Don’t think anyone here is moved by your tears, boy. You unman yourself. You know what happens when you come back with anything less than five _semis_!” Connor closes his eyes, bracing for a strike. A gagging sound forces them open again.

Connor’s eyes burn from wide-eyed staring, but he can’t seem to look away from the sight before him much less blink. The centurion has Zlatko’s wrist in one hand and the heavy-set man’s neck in another.

“Do I understand you plainly?” Despite his youth, Connor knows the question is rhetorical; Zlatko must as well because he does little more than stare with shocked, bulging eyes. “You expect this boy to steal for you then beat him if he hasn’t risked his life for the amount? Five _semis_ is worth more than your life. What kind of father—”

Despite his purpling face, Zlatko is still able to produce a facsimile of a laugh. It hurts more than Connor thought it would. He’d always known he couldn’t buy or earn Zlatko’s affection, but he had hoped.

The centurion tosses Zlatko to the dirt, placing the hobnailed heel of his shoe to the wheezing man’s chest, “I could kill you now, and none would blink at my actions.” His voice is deadly calm as his hand rests casually on the hilt of his sword. Connor scoots a fraction away at the sight.

Blue eyes dart in his direction before he addresses Zlatko again, “You’ve wrought enough misery on this boy’s life. I won’t have your gruesome death stain his dreams. Give him to me, leave this place, and you can keep your life.”

Blood pounds loudly in Connor’s ears, drowning out whatever paltry protest Zlatko makes. Connor knows he’ll capitulate in the end. He can feel his sweaty hands shake against his thighs. How many times had he dreamed of being free of Zlatko? He curses that he hadn’t been more specific.

Connor didn’t have much experience with soldiers beyond pickpocketing them, but he’d seen enough of them to know they were a hard lot and prone to brutality. He’d also heard more sinister rumors of their interest in boyish faces. He didn’t know what all the old women whispered about behind wrinkled hands, but he gathered it wasn’t an experience he wanted to add to his memory bank.

Connor’s blank eyes stare at Zlatko’s departing feet as the first inklings of panic begin to froth in his gut. He desperately aches for his mother—for a time when he wasn’t property that could be exchanged for coins or, apparently, threats of violence.

The centurion’s cool blue eyes gain level with his once more, shaking him out of his terrified reverie, “What’s your name, kid?”

It sounds more like a command than a question, but the hand on his shoulder is gentle. He sags beneath it, painfully aware it’s the first time since his mother’s passing that someone’s touched him without malice in their heart.

“C-Connor,” he chokes out around the remaining tears his eyes see fit to squeeze out. The centurion stares at him as if second-guessing his decision and Connor hangs his head in shame, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Connor,” the man’s voice saying his name is more authoritative than an order to kneel before a king, “look at me.”

His eyes snap up and the centurion’s fingers squeeze on his shoulder, “You don’t need to fear me. If you want to take your leave, say so. I won’t stop you. If you wish to remain with me, then there is much we need to discuss.”

Connor’s taken aback by the man’s overly formal speech and surmises he doesn’t have many interactions with young people. It’s not surprising given his profession, but then why bother playing the hero to a youth he hardly knows?

“Why are you helping me?” Connor asks the bald question and the man gives him the barest flash of a smile, a slender gap between his front teeth winking in and out of sight.

“A fair enough question with a complicated answer. The short version? I can’t stand injustice. That man; I gathered he was not your father?”

Connor shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. His brain is buzzing with too many questions to explain just yet how he’d come into Zlatko’s custody—how he’d become a possession.

The centurion squeezes Connor’s shoulder once more then rises to his feet, pulling Connor with him. Despite the size of the man, he handles him lightly.

Never releasing his grip, the centurions asks, “Can you curry a horse? Sharpen blades? That sort of thing?”

Connor eyes him warily, hesitating on his answer, “I can.” Before the soldier can speak another word, Connor continues, “but I’m not a slave.”

The man emits a loud, abrupt barking laugh that startles a few nearby chickens, “Good gods in heaven, boy. How is it you still have your tongue with a mouth like that?” Heat rises to Connor’s cheeks and he remains silent.

The man’s laughter dies down and he surveys Connor with greater interest, “You want honest work, understandable enough. You can have it if you return your ill-gotten coins.”

Connor goes pale and shakes his head hard enough to make his eyes feel like they’ll go flying from his skull, “He’ll kill me.” While the cost of petty thievery in this rural town was most often a savage beating, Connor has no doubts how far a drunken soldier will let his rage fly.

The centurion fixes him with a cool gaze, “Not if you pledge yourself to the legion. You’re too young to join now, but you can swear fealty. You’ll train until you’re of age.” Connor swallows down a thick, confusing lump of emotion at the offer. Connor had assumed the man meant to take him on as a servant; training was something else altogether.

No doubt, this soldier was prepared to make Connor own up to his thievery regardless of his answer. It was a gamble no matter how he looked at it. Without the centurion’s protection, Connor would surely perish following a brutal thrashing. If he accepted the offer, an equally dismal fate could await him. The man could have impure, ignoble intentions. He could be a silver-tongued charlatan speaking honey in Connor’s ear only to reveal a beast behind closed doors.

Or, Connor’s thoughts countered themselves, his offer could be sincere. Connor could escape his life living on the brink of starvation. Connor could become someone worthwhile who didn’t hide from his own reflection.

The will to live and take the risk asserts itself. Connor nods, curls his fingers closed around the coins, and turns on his heel to re-enter the _popina_. He collides immediately into the rightful owner of the coins. He hadn’t heard him exit or approach and he nearly fumbles the coins in panic.

Extending his arm, the words, “These are yours,” are barely out of his mouth before the man has his wrist in a vice grip.

“I know, you filthy little pickpocket,” the man is younger than the centurion is, but he carries himself like a seasoned soldier. He rears back, ready to strike when the elder warrior intervenes, “I’m sure you heard us clearly, Allen. The boy wishes to commit himself to our cause. Hands off.” The man shakes off the centurion’s grip before snatching the coins from Connor’s still proffered hand and stalking back inside.

It isn’t until the man is gone from view that Connor exhales a tightly held breath.

“That was brave of you,” the centurion offers, his voice quiet and deep. A pleasant tingle ripples across Connor’s skin at the compliment. It’s much nicer than the way his stomach churned when reporting back to Zlatko.

The man’s expression shifts to something approaching sheepish, “I suppose you ought to know my name if you’re going to travel with me.”

A goat bleats in the background right as the centurion says his name and Connor turns his ear toward him, trying to catch it. Swearing about backwoods towns with their goats and their chickens, he repeats himself, “My name is Henrik, but most of you Romans butcher it.”

Connor tries to speak the odd name and it feels as foreign on his tongue as it sounds to his ears. The man gives him a tight smile at the attempt, “Call me Henk.”

Connor tries again, but he can’t quite imitate the throaty quality and it comes out sounding a great deal more like _Hank_. The soldier runs a hand over his face, but Connor sees a slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes, “That will have to do.”

The newly rechristened _Hank_ slaps the flank of a fine horse tethered nearby, “Right then. Make sure he’s watered and fed then come find me at the blacksmith. We head for home within the hour.” Connor nods numbly as Hank hands him a sack of coins, “These aren’t for personal spending. Take a single coin for yourself, and I’ll know it. This should be sufficient to tend to Sumo.”

When he sees Connor’s blank stare, he chortles out another bark of laughter then clarifies, “This is Sumo. He’s a bit of a mule at times. Don’t let him trick you into extra oats or apples.”

Without a backward glance, Hank strides off in the general direction of the blacksmith. Hands heavy with more money than he’s ever held in his lifetime, Connor heads off to find an ostler at the town’s _caupona_. It takes a few tugs, but the promise of food goads Sumo into motion.

Connor’s head swims dizzyingly when he tries to take in the afternoon’s rapid turn of events. He’s still not entirely sure why he’s trusting this Hank. He’d saved him from Zlatko, but to what end? He gains nothing by taking on a boy without means or title. The situation was entirely in Connor’s favor as far as status went, but the _why_ remained out of reach.

With space and time, Hank’s differentness begins to come into sharper focus. He’d been terrified for most of their initial encounter and his brain had no time to process his odd accent or his unusual complexion, much less try to determine how someone so obviously foreign had risen to the rank of centurion in the Roman military at such a young age.

Connor goes through the motions of purchasing food and water for Sumo. His irritation with the ostler pushes concerns about his new proprietor briefly from his mind, “Three _semis_?” It takes some haggling, and Connor’s pretty sure he still got scammed, but Sumo has food and water, and the pouch is still reasonably heavy.

He sits in silence, watching the patrons trickle in as the afternoon wanes into early evening. With so many soldiers still at the _popina_, Connor guesses the beds at the _caupona_ will fill quickly. When the horse’s belly sways with water and oats, Connor sets off with reins in hand to find Hank.

_We head for home_, the words play on repeat in his mind as he walks through the dusty streets ensconced by the _insulae _that kept the heart of the town beating. These shabby dwellings boasted storefronts selling goods Connor had never even dreamed of buying. The heavy thud of coins in the bag tied to his waist guides his feet to the shop’s sign.

“I’m no thief,” Connor whispers to himself, clenching his fists. The scent of yeasty bread wafts out through the open doorway, but the stench of the family living behind and above the shop ruins much of the effect. Still, Connor knows the town’s baker is second to none even if his sons are lazy about emptying the chamber pots just out of sight.

With a sigh and a visible feat of will, Connor pushes himself away from the building’s cracked walls. He won’t risk angering Hank over a meager roll of bread. Everything about this town was miserable and dull like wheat fields stamped into the dirt. Even if it’s a risk, Hank is offering him a way out of a life that’s proven more miserable than anything else.

Patting Sumo’s neck and tugging on the reins once more, he doesn’t feel the hawkish blue-eyed scrutiny from across the street. Hank shadows him, watching with interest as Connor passes shop after shop. Small tremors of obvious want rack his slight frame, but he presses onward more stubbornly than a plow horse. Circling around, Hank calls to Connor just as he’s about to cross the blacksmith’s threshold.

The boy whirls on his heel and Hank notices for the first time how poorly dressed Connor is. From afar, he looks passable. His tunic is serviceable and plain, but it’s clearly fraying at the arms and hem upon closer inspection. His _baxa_ sandals had seen better days and Hank wonders if Connor can feel every crack in the road through the thinning material.

Feeling moderately less ridiculous about his recent purchase, he decides to hold off on giving it to Connor until the boy is better outfitted.

_Why are you helping me? _Connor’s question plays in the back of his mind as he takes in his dilapidated appearance and Hank shakes his head against the weight of it. It had seemed simple enough at the time. He had the means and more than enough space given his recent rise in status.

His own homeland, much farther north and much cruder by Roman standards, had honed his skills well enough to catch the eye of a general passing through _Danduti_’s trade route. Hank’s significant size and height caught the eye of almost any foreigner passing through. While the people of his country were all tall, so too were the Romans. Hank stood nearly half a head above the tallest of the Roman soldiers.

It didn’t take the general long to figure out that Hank was as strong as he was large. Tossing him a _pilum_, he showed Hank the basics before instructing him to throw it as far as he could. It landed an impressive number of paces away—a distance one soldier announced to be one hundred _pedes_. When instructed to throw it as hard as he could, Hank had pierced a wooden pole so deeply no one could pry the iron head from it.

Hank had jumped at the offer of _civitas_. The youngest of seven children, six of whom were boys, he knew he had limited opportunities in his country. With no prospects for an inheritance and no interest in marriage, Hank joined the general and his army. He left his blacksmithing life behind without a backward glance. After four years of exemplary service, he achieved the rank of centurion less than a fortnight after his thirtieth birthday.

Looming over this young boy now, he doesn’t have a simple or even logical explanation. On one level, he had told the truth. He abhorred when people abused their station in life, especially if their gains were at the suffering of another.

However, there was something more than that. Hank could feel it. He’d seen plenty of orphaned kids in just as dire of situations. How often had he passed by babies left in the streets with the family watching from the window hoping someone would take them? Poverty was an all too real problem in the small towns that surrounded Rome.

So what was it about Connor that had made him extend the offer of hospitality? It’s a massive responsibility on top of his duties as a centurion. In fact, he’s almost certain Benny will kill him on the spot when he finds out. Hank’s work forces him away for years at a time and _someone_ has to care for his villa. Watching the boy now, though, he’s pretty sure he knows why he decided to question him rather than outright pronounce him a thief. There is an honorable quality to him that’s hard to come by.

Rushing over, Connor nearly drops the bag in his haste to return it, “Y-Your money.” Several coins remain and Hank frowns at the small purse. “I didn’t take any!” Connor squeaks out, preparing to drag Hank to the ostler to square up the expense.

Hank’s gives him a small smile, “I believe you. I’m just surprised it cost so little.” Connor provides a very animated explanation and Hank has to fight back a laugh at Connor’s imitation of the “cheap rat bastard ostler.”

Hank waves him over to take Sumo’s reins then hauls himself onto the saddle. Connor half wonders if he’s meant to walk when Hank leans down and fists the back of his tunic, hauling Connor onto the horse.

“It’s a long way,” Hank says by way of explanation, “and we have much to discuss.”

Connor nods and tries to keep track of everything Hank tells him. Evidently, Hank expects him to learn to fight hand-to-hand as well as with a sword and a spear. On top of that, he must learn to defend himself with a shield as well as study combat history to learn how various enemies fought. It exhausts Connor just thinking about it and he sags in the saddle.

Hank laughs and prods him in the side, “This great empire wasn’t built in one day and neither will you be—I don’t expect you to learn it all overnight.”

Hank falls silent and Connor’s young mind whirs with the events of the days. He thinks of how poorly things could’ve gone without Hank’s interference and gives an involuntary shudder. As if reading his mind, Hank asks, “Who was that man to you? From the market.” His tone is soft, but it demands an answer.

Connor stares unblinkingly at the horizon, trying to find the words. He decides to start at the beginning, “A sick man came to town with a fever and spots on this chest. No one wanted him, but he stayed. Other people started getting sick, too. They blamed the man. They ran him out, b-but…” Connor fades off to breathe heavily and scrub at his eyes.

“Your family got sick, too?” Hank guesses and Connor nods.

“Father first then mother. When father died, she got scared. She heard of a man taking orphans. _Zlatko_,” Connor says his name like a dirty word, scowling. “She told me where he was. She t-told me to go.” Hank can hear unbelievable grief in Connor’s young voice. His heart clenches for the boy and the hardships he’s had to endure in his short years.

Connor takes several deep breaths before continuing and his voice takes on a deadened quality to it, like someone trying to distance himself from a memory, “Mother fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up. She was still breathing and very hot, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. It happened with father, too.”

The Plague of Athens had hit several towns years prior, but it surprises Hank to hear of its continued existence this far out in the country. Curious, he asks, “How long ago was this?”

Connor sighs, counting off on his fingers, “…three, four. Four years ago.” Hank tries not to startle in his saddle. Connor had been with that vile man for _four years_?

“What happened when you found Zlatko?” Hank nudges Connor back into the conversation. He doesn’t want to make the boy dwell for too long on dark memories, but he needs to know his background.

“It was ok at first. I begged for money,” Connor cringes fully aware of how shameful it is to his people. “But then he said I was too old. People only pity the young ones. He said I had to start stealing. I said no.”

“Good for you,” Hank mutters encouragement even if he knows Connor eventually succumbed to Zlatko’s demand.

Connor shakes his head, “He hit me. My eye hurt for days. I couldn’t open it.”

Unfiltered rage rises in Hank’s chest at how simply Connor says it, clearly used to such mistreatment after several years. Before he can speak, Connor continues, “So I did as I was told. I tried—I didn’t take a lot.”

Hank thinks of the three meager _quadrans_, of his pouch returned to him without a single missing coin, of Connor’s earnestness that he hadn’t taken any—the boy would make a fine soldier, he was sure of it. Hell, he had more integrity than half the men who came to join the legion.

Hank doubts Connor will ever have the size needed to be a centurion, but he could rise through the ranks of the legionaries with enough training—assuming the boy wanted it.

Hank is no father and has nothing to offer Connor in that regard, but he can provide the foundation of a future. He asks Connor simple questions to work out his interest in the idea. He ascertains Connor is interested in anything that’s honorable and keeps him fed, dry, and warm. Humble desires from humble beginnings.

They arrive at Hank’s home far too late to do much more than go to bed. Hank shows Connor to his room with a promise to show him around in the morning, “It’s a large place—I get lost myself sometimes.” Connor nods, unsteady on his saddle-weary legs. Hank’s certain Connor will be asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

A little after sunrise, the boy comes scampering into the dining hall looking winded, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find—,” he breaks off to stare wide-eyed at the food on the table. Breads, cheeses, and olives sit in trays with small bowls of wine, oil, and honey scattered around them for dipping. Connor can’t recall the last time he had breakfast.

Hank motions for Connor to eat as he continues his discussion with an unknown soldier, “And training? The latest recruits arrived on time?” Connor’s ears perk up at the mention of others coming to train. It hadn’t occurred to him that he would train with other people. He feels a little bit stupid for not realizing it and begins inhaling food as he attempts to listen in on the conversation.

“Yes, sir. They arrived footsore a few hours after you did. They’re being outfitted today and should be ready to begin tomorrow.” The man’s armor clinks as he shifts to peer out the window, “Although truth be told, I think they could use another day if you can spare it. Some came from quite a distance on foot. They’re soaking their feet in salts and wrapping them with herbs but—,”

Hank waves a dismissive hand, “Would an enemy give tired soldiers time to catch their breath? Tend their wounds? Either they are ready tomorrow or they may return where they came from in disgrace.” Connor can hear the dismissal in Hank’s tone without the man giving the order. The soldier hears it too. With a salute, he murmurs his understanding and takes his leave.

Another man passes by the exiting soldier, giving him a nod, “You are a brute, Henrik.” His smile is pleasant enough, but Connor tries his best to remain invisible.

“Benny!” Hank rises to clap the man on the back and Connor surmises they’re friends. The man is a good deal shorter than Hank and a few years younger. While his face has fewer lines, his hair has hints of greyish-white at the temples. Connor notices a pronounced limp and an ugly scar on his knee—a soldier once, perhaps?

The newcomer claps the back of his hand against Hank’s chest in mock irritation, “You come sneaking back in the dead of night with a guest and can’t be bothered to wake me?” 

Hank arches a wry eyebrow, “And risk your flailing fists? I know better than to wake you, Benny.” Turning his attention to Connor, Hank offers a suitable edited introduction and backstory as to why he’s there.

Connor’s mind real with questions and new information, but the lure of food is stronger than his curiosity. Mouth crammed full of honey bread, he isn’t prepared for Hank to address him, “Since the incoming soldiers are too weary to begin today, what’s say I show you around town?”

He nods, trying to chew and swallow the contents packed in his cheeks as they prepare to set out for the local market. Dressed in a simple tunic and cloak, Hank still stands out among the crowd even without his centurion regalia. Instead of his armor and helmet, Hank has a sizeable satchel slung over his shoulder. Eyes turn to stare at the fair-haired giant and Connor feels impossibly small beside him.

This market is unlike any Connor’s seen—meat, honest to goodness meat, sizzles over coals and Connor’s mouth waters. He can’t remember the last time he’s had fresh meat. The most Zlatko had ever offered was smoked, dried husks that were once meat but mostly tasted of salt. They could last for months, but they left much to be desired in regards to texture and taste.

Hank chuckles at him the fifth time he does a complete circle while standing in place, “The market isn’t going anywhere, Connor. You don’t need to see it all in one day.”

It takes Connor most of the morning to realize he won’t be training with the men and he does his best not to pout. Hank clucks his tongue at him, shelling out coins to pay for a bundle of fabric. Connor doesn’t pay it much attention now that the wind’s been sucked from his sails.

“So what am I to do? Fetch things?” He tries not to sound resentful, but he has little notion of what he’s to do until he’s _old enough_ as Hank had put it. He feels plenty old enough now. He’ll be twelve come late summer when the wine grapes are ready for harvesting.

Hank’s mouth twitches as if fighting a smile but his voice forbids defiance, “You’ll do as you’re told as any green soldier would do.” The set of his lips softens a bit and he adds, “You’ll still train, but it will mostly be learning at first. How well can you read?” Connor wrinkles his nose at the idea of books. He’d hoped for sword fighting first.

Still, his mother had taken the time to teach him, even if they were never rich enough to afford private tutors, “I can read and write. Zlatko made sure all of us could. We had to know how to read the coins we were…we had to know how to read.” Connor cuts his explanation short before adding, “Mother taught me. Before.”

Hank nods and leaves the conversation behind them as he steers Connor back toward his home. He lets Connor lead the way and both are pleasantly surprised when Connor finds his way back to his rooms on the first try.

“I don’t have much need for servants, but there is the cook and Benny. Either of them can direct you if you get lost. I’ll alert the chef of your presence.” Hank’s tone is bizarrely formal again in a way that Connor is rapidly recognizing as a lead up to something significant.

Unslinging the bag he took to market, Hank extracts a new tunic and tosses it to Connor, “These should be of a size for you.” Nodding at a chest at the foot of his bed, Hank continues, “Check it.”

He has no good reason for it, but something about Hank’s tone makes his hands tremble with anticipation. Lifting the lid with care, Connor can tell it’s a quality piece by its weight and how smoothly it opens. He nearly drops it when he sees what’s inside.

Reaching in with a tentative hand, he pulls out a heavy wooden sword and an even heavier shield. They droop toward the floor and he struggles to heft them back into place. He doesn’t care; they’re _his_.

He stares in open-mouthed silence for the span of four heartbeats before Hank claps him on the back, “I take it you like them?”

Connor’s mouth works open and closed like a minnow trying to converse with a hawk in the sky. Finally, a few words come tumbling out, “I thought…but you said?” He shrugs the equipment at Hank and the man gives him a lopsided grin that exposes his teeth.

“You won’t train with the _men_, but you’ll still practice.” Connor’s eyes dance and Hank quickly amends, “_After_ you finish your studies each day and Benny gives you leave to do so.”

It takes a few weeks for Connor to work out a rhythm. Even though there’s no active war, Rome’s enemies won’t accept peace for long and skirmishes have erupted along contested borders. Hank is often away performing his duties, and, when he’s home, he works with the recruits. Though they eat meals together most days, Connor finds he spends more time under the dutiful gaze of his tutor-sometimes-quarter-master.

“Bennyyyy,” Connor groans, letting his head fall to the writing desk with a thunk.

“Connorrrrrrr,” Veniamin sing-songs back at him, “and don’t call me that.”

Connor wrinkles his nose at the portly man, “Hank calls you Benny all the time.”

Veniamin skewers a grape on a prong and brandishes it at Connor, “Henrik saved my life in the war. He can call me whatever he wants. You, my _anaticula_, have not earned the privilege.”

Connor mutters, “I’m not little. And I’m not a duck,” as he rolls his eyes. 

Veniamin thwaps him on the head with his now empty skewer, “I saw that.” After a brief pause, he ruffles Connor’s hair, “Call me Ben.”

Connor likes the man even if he’d gotten soft and plump in the years since he’d nearly lost his leg. No one will tell him the whole story, but he knows it was a brutal fight; both Hank and Ben were lucky to make it out alive much less intact.

Connor scratches away dutifully at the scroll for a few more minutes, trying to get his brain to care about Athenians, Egyptians, or their relative styles of combat. He smiles when he hears the familiar sound of Ben snoring from his chair. Tiptoeing to his room, he retrieves his sword and shield before heading to the small practice yard Hank had set up for him to train.

His hands have calloused over finally after a few weeks of painful blistering. Hank had clucked his tongue and told him his skin would toughen up soon enough and so it had. His arm no longer ached within minutes of holding up the heavy shield, either.

Unaware he has an audience, Connor works through the attacks, blocks, and feints Hank showed him. He’s methodical bordering on maniacal. Hank nudges Ben’s elbow from the window, “You shouldn’t let him practice alone, you know. It breeds bad habits.”

Ben gives him an easy shrug, “He corrects himself better than any soldier I’ve worked with; besides, I need him to wear himself out a bit before I go toe to toe with him. I’m older than I used to be, Henrik.”

Hank exhales a disbelieving snort through his nose, “Watch who you’re calling old, Benny. I have several years on you.”

“I said older, not old,” Ben grumps back at him, casting a worried glance at his ruined leg.

Hank catches his eye, “Hey, you’re here. Don’t dwell on it.” 

“Sometimes I wonder if your kindness isn’t going to get the best of you someday. You could have died trying to get to me, Henrik,” Ben broaches a conversation he’s tried and failed to have with Hank numerous times.

As expected, Hank dodges the topic, “Go ask the recruits if I’m kind. I’m sure you’ll get a variety of colorful, profane answers in the negative.”

Ben gives him a small, grudging smile, “You know what I mean.” Ben gestures at Connor, “That was a good thing.”

“Keeping you alive was a good thing, too, Veniamin,” Hank counters.

With a sigh, Ben tries to make him see reason, “You make decisions for people that you think are in their best interest. You’re usually right, but…”

“But _what_?” Hank says quietly, an edge to his voice.

“Connor won’t always be a boy. He’ll grow up and make choices that may diverge from yours. You’re headstrong and hard of will.” Hank glowers at him, motioning for him to get to the point, “_Let him_ is all I’m saying. When the time comes, don’t make his decisions for him.”

“Are you saying I should have let you die? Are you somehow unhappy with the choice I made?” Hank’s temper simmers barely controlled beneath the surface of his skin.

Ben holds up his hands in surrender, “No, Henrik. I’m saying you don’t always consider what comes after your actions. You’re a good man, an honorable man, so it usually works out for you. But that was before all this mess with the inquiry.”

“It’s bullshit,” Hank spits wetly on the ground between them.

Ben tries for a soothing tone, “They still made you a centurion. They must know there’s nothing to the rumors. All I’m saying is you can’t afford to act first and think later anymore.”

Hank stares at Connor practicing below, not really seeing him. Ben can tell his words have found purchase in Hank’s mind.

“Maybe you’re right,” Hank says slowly, stroking along his beard.

“Of course I am,” Ben says smugly, popping another grape into his mouth. “Now get down there before his footwork goes to hell permanently.”

Hank barks out a surprised laugh and snags Ben by the back of his toga, “You’ve eaten enough of my grapes. Let’s show the boy how it’s done.” Ben protests half-heartedly about his leg, but he concedes in the end. He misses the thrum of battle and Hank knows it.

Connor watches the two men spar with one and other, moving slowly for his benefit. They laugh easily and the match soon devolves into a debate on tactics. Connor absorbs it all, secretly jealous but hopeful that he’ll form such a friendship when Hank deems him old enough to train with the recruits.

_Three more years_, Connor thinks to himself. He’s waited for the majority of his life for something good to happen. He can stand to wait a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Connor, be reasonable. He told me before he left that he wanted to select the company you train with; these things _matter_. Henrik is in a position to ensure you are with quality trainees. How would you feel if you wound up with turnips and potatoes for sparring mates instead of well-groomed warriors in the making?”
> 
> Connor grumbles about Ben and his food metaphors before stomping out of the breakfast hall in high dudgeon. Hank watches him go, unseen.
> 
> Approaching from behind, he claps a hand on Ben’s shoulder, “Well, that’s a lot of attitude for someone who’s yet to cut his teeth on actual battle.”

**Probatio** : a series of tests that citizens of Rome had to pass before being admitted into the army as a legionary.  
**Castrum** : fortified military camp  
**Venationes** : a public spectacle featuring animal hunts, usually in an amphitheater

Three years soon becomes four and Connor’s patience wanes with it, “Ben, I’m going to be the oldest one to go through the _probatio_ at this rate! I don’t want some kid to best me in front of everyone I know!” By everyone, Connor meant Hank. He was also exaggerating; plenty of men older than him went through the initial phase of training to weed out the unsuitable.

Still, he’d had this argument with Ben several times and he was starting to wear the man down by sheer determination.

“Connor,” Ben began in a placating tone, “No one could have predicted that Athens would cause such an uproar again so soon. They’re weak; this fight won’t drag on like the last one di—”

Connor throws his hands up in frustration, “He’s been gone for _years_, Veniamin! He’s written maybe six times since then and not once does he mention formal training. How long am I to spar with you and wooden dummies that don’t fight back?”

Ben spreads his hands in a _what can you do? _type gesture and Connor changes tactics. Adopting a complimentary attitude, Connor continues his wheedling, “_He_ left _you_ in charge. Surely, you can make this decision.”

“Connor, be reasonable. He told me before he left that he wanted to select the company you train with; these things _matter_. Henrik is in a position to ensure you are with quality trainees. How would you feel if you wound up with turnips and potatoes for sparring mates instead of well-groomed warriors in the making?”

Connor grumbles about Ben and his food metaphors before stomping out of the breakfast hall in high dudgeon. Hank watches him go, unseen.

Approaching from behind, he claps a hand on Ben’s shoulder, “Well, that’s a lot of attitude for someone who’s yet to cut his teeth on actual battle.”

Ben whirls, clutching his chest, “Don’t _do_ that, Henrik!” Once over his shock, Ben pulls him into an embrace, “Good gods, man. It’s been too long. You could have written to us more often, you know. Connor’s been driving me mad, asking daily when he can join the others to train.”

“So I overheard,” Hank mutters, rubbing at the stubble crowding around his beard. He drops a heavy bag to the floor and it clinks. Fishing around inside it, he pulls out an impressive sword with a hilt and scabbard notched by battle, “We’ll see how ready he is in the morning.”

Thinking to surprise the impatient young man with an early morning round of sparring, Hank’s taken aback to find Connor’s bed empty. The sun peeks over the horizon as if it too isn’t ready yet for Connor’s voracious appetite for training.

Watching Connor from across the yard, Hank notes that he’s grown significantly since he last saw him. Still shorter than Hank, Connor’s height puts him well above Ben and plenty of other Romans. While his limbs cling to the gangliness of youth, Hank can see lithe muscles contract and try to keep up with Connor’s demands as he hurls a heavy _pilum _into a target. 

He watches him for several minutes, growing more impressed with each throw. While Hank can throw from a much greater distance, Connor’s aim is enviable. Four years was a long time to hone skills and Connor clearly hadn’t wasted them.

“Connor!” Hank shouts to him, startling a few lost chickens as he does. Connor hurls the pointed stick in hand before turning with a grin. He doesn’t wait to see if it hits home on the target before charging at Hank, kicking up dust in his wake.

He skids to a halt in front of the man, and Hank nods in approval at the skewered targets, “Benny tells me you’re eager to join the recruits.” He waits for Connor’s nod before goading him, “Do you think you’re ready?”

Connor hears the challenge in Hank’s tone and he grins, bearing his teeth, “You tell me.” Hank laughs before wandering over to a weapon stand and selecting two dense wooden blades. Hank lets Connor warm up first, loosening muscles and working through familiar motions.

The sun is in full halo by the time they begin to fight in earnest. Hank notes Connor’s eagerness, how he delights when he lands a hit and how he readjusts and adapts when Hank surprises him with a tricky maneuver.

Connor comes to life when he spars with Hank in a way that Ben can never inspire. Woken by the clacking of swords and the grunts of both men, Ben wanders down to watch Hank wear Connor down. When Hank delivers a punishing blow, Ben winces and his body aches. Connor doubles down, making small changes to improve his guard.

Ben can never bring himself to be so harsh when he spars with Connor, but Hank clearly has no such qualms. When questioned about it later, Hank shrugs, “Our enemies wouldn’t care that he’s not yet fully trained. The recruits certainly won’t cut him any slack—not when they’re trying to make a name for themselves as well.”

“True enough,” Ben concedes slightly. “Even so, they aren’t giants returning from the fury of war. I think you may have done him more injury than you realize.”

“Bah,” Hank grumbles in disagreement and Ben shrugs at him. Attempting to catch up on his rest, sleep eludes him. Hank has never been one for mid-afternoon dozing, but that’s not what’s keeping him awake.

He finds Connor in the dining hall, hunched over the table, working on a painfully boring star chart. Connor rubs absentmindedly at his wrist and Hank can see a bruise swelling around the tender joint. A small pang of guilt runs through him, but he pushes it away. Connor will need to be tough if he’s going to survive the other recruits. Hank nearly stumbles over his own feet when he realizes Connor’s less than a year away from being of age to join the legionaries.

“You fight well,” Hank calls to him, gesturing at him to follow him from the room. More than willing to abandon the chart, Connor jogs to catch up.

“Why do I hear a _but_ somewhere in that tone?” Hank laughs. He’d forgotten how forward and mouthy Connor could be in his years away from home.

“You need to acknowledge when you can’t win,” Hank gets to his point straightaway since Connor is so eager.

Connor sputters in surprise, “What? And give up without trying?”

Hank chuckles at Connor’s indignation, “Of course not. You need to adjust your tactics and start looking for weaknesses. War isn’t about fighting fair. Your opponent won’t play by the rules, especially if they think they have an advantage on you.”

He lets Connor mull that one over for a bit before continuing, “Take me, for example. You may never be able to take me in a straightforward fight based on my size alone. You still have some growing to do, but I doubt you’ll attain my strength or height.”

Connor arches an eyebrow at him, “I see war has done wonders for toning down your ego, Hank. You’re a shining example of humility.” Connor may have spent little time with Hank before the demands of war called him away, but he’d devoured the stories Ben would share at the end of the day around the dwindling fire.

Hank shoots Connor a sharp, gap-toothed smile, “Thank you.” Connor snorts and Hank continues, “My point being, you can’t approach a fight against a more skilled opponent and expect an even playing field. Watch them and try to exploit weaknesses.”

“So what about you, then?” Connor challenges him, “What’s your weakness?”

“I have none,” Hank answers, puffing out his chest and a burst of laughter escapes Connor’s throat. Throwing Connor a wink, Hank motions at his right ankle, “I turned it badly in my youth. It’s never been the same and I favor it if I’ve been on my feet for too long. Kicking it out from under me would give you a moment of advantage.”

Connor frowns, “That doesn’t sound very honorable.”

Hank claps him on the back, “It’s not. But let me say this: not everyone you encounter in training will be honorable. Plenty of criminals and desperate men fill out the ranks. It’s their way to gain _civitas. _It doesn’t make them good men by virtue of being at camp. It’s why I’ve held off for so long in sending you.”

The wary look Hank gives him makes Connor’s stomach churn. He’d overheard Ben and Hank the night prior discussing some of the more immoral things that went on at less scrupulous camps. Connor doesn’t doubt Hank’s words even if he’s still yearning to go.

They continue to walk in thoughtful silence and it takes Connor several minutes to realize where Hank is leading him. They emerge at the top of a spiral, high up enough to see several miles away. He grins when his eyes land on a now very familiar market.

“It seemed so huge to me the first time I went with you. I thought I’d get lost for sure when you sent me alone the next week,” he points at the peaks of brightly colors tents for Hank’s benefit.

The man grins at him, “If I’m being honest, I thought you would, too.” Connor shoves at him in indignation and Hank returns the gesture, forcing Connor to skip a few times on one leg to avoid falling over.

Hank gestures at a tall, slender structure in the distance as Connor regains his balance, “See that watchtower?”

Connor nods, familiar with all of the structures within eyesight of Hank’s home, “It’s part of an old _castrum_ that’s since gone to seed. It’s never been used in the years since I’ve lived here.”

Hank nods, pleased the Connor knows the local lay of the land. He makes a reminder to thank Ben for taking over his household responsibilities while he was away.

“Correct,” Hank begins, glancing at Connor from the corner of his eye. He wants to see his reaction when he hears the news, “Can I trust you with a secret, Connor?”

The boy’s eyes light up, “Of course.”

“In a few weeks’ time, legionaries will arrive to train alongside new recruits. The war is faring well, but it’s taking longer than we’d care for. We need more men to squelch this uprising. They’re to bring that old camp back to life.”

Connor sags a bit before asking, “So what’s the secret?”

Hank can’t contain his grin as he leans on a concrete parapet, “You’re going.”

Connor’s mouth opens to deliver a perfunctory reply before it snaps shut again in realization. Whipping around to peer at Hank’s mirthful expression, Connor’s voice cracks around the question, “Really? I’m really going?”

“You’ll train with the other recruits until I or another centurion say otherwise, but, yes, you’re really going.” Connor’s enthusiastic face tugs at an old memory inside Hank. He remembers the thrill of joining. He’d often wondered if Connor truly wanted a soldier’s life given how Hank had found him. He’s glad to see such zeal.

Connor’s happiness appears to puncture slightly when he looks from the rundown fort back to Hank, “But…you’ve only just come home. I’d hoped…” Connor fades off, shaking his head.

Hank claps him on the back and Connor winces at the force of it, “You’ll see me often enough. I’ll be there for at least a year supervising the reconstruction and training efforts. There was talk of keeping me on to run the camp as well, so you may have a few years more of me yet.” He lets his hand drop when Connor relaxes upon hearing the information.

“So,” he begins, eager to get started, “when do we leave?”

It takes the better part of two weeks to pack everything Connor will need. He goes wide-eyed when Hank gives him his old sword, “I can’t take this.”

“Of course you can,” Hank argues, pressing it into Connor’s hands when he doesn’t reach out to accept it. “I have dozens and you need a real sword at camp. This was mine when I was your age. It doesn’t suit my size now. I have no use for it; take it.”

Connor nods, an odd expression on his face. Hank turns away to shout at men loading a cart, leaving Connor with his thoughts. A strange, confusing mix of emotions grips him. He’s glad Hank is home, he’s thrilled he’s going to train, and he appreciates the gesture of the sword. Still, something feels off. It isn’t until Ben ambles outside to stand beside him that Connor realizes what’s bothering him.

“I’m going to miss you,” he mumbles awkwardly. After multiple years alone with Ben in Hank’s too-large house, he’d grown used to his comforting presence. Hank was always harsh and demanding even if he had a kind heart. Ben softened those sharp edges.

“You’ll be fine, Connor,” Ben says quietly. “More than fine, I’m sure. I’ve seen how far you’ve come these past few years. He’ll see it, too.” Ben was always able to see through Connor’s façade to prod at the heart of his concerns.

Glancing down at the sword in his hands, Connor lacks Ben’s certainty. They both watch Hank shout at a man before taking a box from him and loading it himself.

“Ah, my _anaticula_,” Ben exhales the long-disused sobriquet, “it may seem like a lot of change all at once, but it’s what you’ve been working toward.”

“Men train to combat against wild beasts in the _venationes_. Training for it and doing it are different,” Connor says flatly.

“Connor,” Ben draws out the ‘R’ in fondness, “you aren’t facing down a lion or a bear; you’re meeting your peers.”

Connor stares at the dirt for a while as Hank hollers at packers stopping to take swigs of _posca_. Digging the toe of his shoe in the dust, he mumbles, “What if I’m not good enough to be a legionary?” Ben’s about to speak when he sees the way Connor’s eyes dart to look at Hank, larger than life itself and ordering about workers as if they were his soldiers.

“Ah,” Ben says quietly, “one step at a time, Connor. You won’t know until you get there and you’ll never find out if you don’t try.” Connor huffs out a quiet sound of doubt, but Ben can tell Connor’s absorbing his words. He’s known the boy long enough to understand how his mind works and how his moods affect his thought processes. With a final goodbye and a promise to visit soon, Connor trudges over to Hank.

“All set?” The broad, fair-haired man calls down to him from his precarious perch atop the various packages they’re taking with them, “Done letting Benny fuss over you like a mother goose?” Still in earshot, Ben calls out a rude comment about Hank’s parentage, which Hank dutifully ignores.

The ride to camp is distinctly uncomfortable. Connor has a million questions, but Hank seems disinclined to talk. His stoic face reveals nothing of his mood and Connor doesn’t feel much like probing. His guts writhe like a pile of maggots being poked with a stick. His mouth is stubbornly dry and refuses to moisten no matter how much _posca_ he sips from the leather sack around his neck.

“Nervous?” Hank asks, startling Connor. He shakes his head, but Hank looks unconvinced, “It’s normal to be nervous, Connor. You don’t need to hide it. Not from me, anyway.” Something warm pulses in Connor’s chest. He wants to be able to talk to Hank about how he feels, but he always stops short of speaking.

Over the past four years, Connor’s had more rehearsed conversations of what he should say than trading actual words with Hank. Some of it is because Hank is away so often. Every time he returns bearing a new scar or a tale about battle, he becomes that much more unreachable. Connor’s tongue gets tied and he’s afraid of appearing weak or stupid in front of the man in a way he’s not with Ben. Ben is warm and reminds Connor of his life from before when he had a proper family. He doesn’t like to dwell on it; the nightmares come hard and fast when he does.

Still, Ben was nurturing and Connor felt safe seeking his counsel. With Hank—well, Connor could never put his finger on it. He cared just a little bit more about what Hank thought of him. He worried about how Hank would see him if dropped his guard and shared his doubts and concerns.

He wants Hank to think him impressive and capable. He wants Hank to look at him and be proud of what he sees. Whenever he tries to work out exactly _why_ he wants these things, his mind goes annoyingly blank. His best guess is it boils down to Hank being gone so often; he’s around less, so Connor wants his attention more.

Now that the man is giving him his full focus unsolicited, Connor has to resist the urge to squirm out from under his gaze. He isn’t prepared for it; he isn’t ready, he—

“You need to breathe, Connor,” Hank says in a calming voice and Connor exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Flushing slightly, Connor’s eyes dart over to Hank for a moment. He expects to see disappointment or maybe even confusion at Connor’s obvious panic, but, instead, he finds a hint of compassion, “I was terrified my first day. A foreigner that could barely speak the language. My size invited challenges. Everyone felt threatened and wanted to prove they could take me in a fight; I just wanted to belong.”

Connor tries not to stare at Hank’s uncharacteristic divulging of his past or his emotions. Swallowing thickly, Connor’s voice warbles and cracks awkwardly like all boys his age. Scowling as Hank chuckles, he tries again, “So what did you do? You’re a centurion now. Something must’ve gone your way.”

Hank nods, “It was tough at first, I won’t lie. I was in more fights than I care to remember or admit. I won most of them and eventually, some of the fights became sparring matches. Sparring became practice. Practice led to drinking. Drinking made friends. People aren’t all that complicated once you peel back the first layer.”

Connor snorts, disagreeing and Hank shrugs, “People are people. We want friends. We want companionship. We want to be around each other. If we didn’t, there’d be a hell of a lot more hermits.”

“Fair enough,” Connor admits grudgingly. “Still, it’s not as if I can go around fighting and hoping I land a friend. I’m not big—I’m not like you.” Hank gives him a knowing look, fully aware his sheer size gave him an advantage in any tussle.

“You won’t be going in alone, Connor. The twins will be there—don’t give me that look. Even if they aren’t your cup of tea, they’re familiar and friendly faces.” Connor grimaces but nods. Daniel and Simon were an odd pair, but they’d always treated Connor decently. His heart lightens a bit at the realization that he won’t be truly alone.

The rest of the ride to camp passes more comfortably. Hank tells Connor a bit of what to expect and Connor divulges his concerns one at a time. By the time they arrive, he’s feeling more confident that he won’t be outright embarrassing.

“Plenty of these boys come from money and have never held a sword in their life. You’re not as far behind as you think,” Hank assures him when Connor presses about his late start.

“I could be a legionary next year if I’d had more _time_,” Connor insists. Hank arches an eyebrow at him and Connor realizes it sounds a good deal as if he is blaming Hank for being away to fight a war, “Not that it’s your fault. I just meant…I just wish—”

Hank’s loud, barking laugh catches Connor off guard and Sumo whinnies at the sound, “Relax, Connor. You’ll have plenty of time to practice at being a soldier before shouldering the real thing.”

The first week passes without much fuss, as the camp isn’t fully functional yet. By the time the buildings and grounds are brought up to snuff, Connor’s itching for some actual training. When Hank calls the young recruits to gather round, Connor has to contain a sigh of relief to finally get started.

“Good Lord. Look at that man. Where’d they find the barbarian?” A snide voice drifts over to him as they approach Hank. Something angry and cold snakes up Connor’s spine at the tone. Connor glances at the dark-haired man sneering in Hank’s direction. He’s built much like Connor, but a great deal shorter.

“Shut it, Leo,” a distinctly feminine voice hisses and Connor does his best not to whirl around on the spot to find the speaker. He hadn’t realized girls would be here. In fact, it was something he’d been counting on.

The girls back home were more of a nuisance than they were worth in Connor’s opinion. They couldn’t fight, they rarely wanted to talk about anything he was remotely interested in, and he had little desire to creep off with them as he knew some of the other boys his age often did.

When Ben had poked fun at his reticence, Connor maintained he didn’t want to plow any fields that had been sown by half a dozen farmers already. Ben had laughed uproariously at the metaphor, but Connor had inwardly cringed. It wasn’t as simple as finding a virtuous girl. He’d yet to find one he wanted to spend more than ten minutes with much less sneak away to—

Hank’s commanding voice pulls Connor’s focus back in his direction, “Boys!” The remaining whispers fade into silence and Hank continues, “That’s what you are today. A group of boys about to test their minds, bodies, and spirits. I won’t lie to you—coddling isn’t something you’ll find here—not all of you will make the cut. Not everyone is suited to a soldier’s life.”

Connor hears Leo mutter something and the same girl from before elbows him hard. Perhaps this one has more in common with him than the women back home.

Hank gives them the general rundown of how their days will proceed, “At daybreak, we have first watch. Following that is breakfast then two separate rounds of training—one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Look to your officers for the orders of the day. Locate one of the scribes to find out who you fall under; they’re by the mess hall. You can expect to practice with swords, spears, bows and on mounts. We’ll also go on several hikes as well as runs.”

Connor can see several recruits wilt under the sheer litany of tasks. He remembers feeling the same way the first time Hank gave him the rundown years ago when he’d given Connor a chance at a future. The young men break off to find their leaders and Connor feels a deep pang of disappointment that he isn’t under Hank’s command. He does snicker quietly when he sees that Leo is, however. 

He was pretty sure he had Leo pegged from the limited interactions he’s had with him. He’s haughty and proud in a way that shows he didn’t earn it. Connor wouldn’t be surprised to learn if he came from a powerful family and makes ten mental notes to stay as far from Leo as possible. He doesn’t want to draw the spoiled teen’s attention and he doesn’t want to risk in fighting between Hank and elite families.

The third time he spots the girl with the deep red hair, he seeks out Hank. He hadn’t intended to go running to him so soon, but he doesn’t know who else to ask.

“Oh, right,” Hank claps a hand to his forehead. “I meant to go over that with the recruits. The centurions can bring their wives and children with them if they want. They’re supposed to keep away from you lot, but that fire-headed girl has a mind of her own.”

“So there’s not going to be many women then?” Connor tries to keep the relief from his tone and succeeds because Hank misinterprets his meaning.

Laughing and clapping Connor on the back, he rumbles, “A pity for you lot, I’m sure. There will be plenty of time for women when your training is complete.”

Connor tries to look enthused and nods before departing under the guise of finding out which officer is leading his section of recruits. The first day is pandemonium with recruits dashing here and there trying to locate armor, their sleeping quarters, and learn the confusing halls of the various buildings. More than once, Connor finds himself in the baths rather than the dining hall.

Life in training is exhausting but satisfying. For the first time, Connor is able to spar with peers rather than Ben, Hank—assuming he was home—or a wooden dummy. It feels good to see he’s not far behind after all. Hank saying it and Connor experiencing it are two different beasts.

Still, the problem with women continues to plague him even here. He’s seen the redhead a fair few times, but other girls crop up here and there as well. He’s no fool; he’s well aware these women are on the prowl for a husband. While that reality is nearly a decade off for Connor, plenty of the existing legionaries are of an age for it.

Connor’s disinterest rapidly becomes a topic of endless gossip. It draws unwanted attention from the younger daughters looking to test their wiles and see if they can catch his gaze. Tall, dark, and stoic, Connor’s face drew more eyes than he cared for.

He manages to rebuff their advances and evade his peers questioning glances for the first year at camp during the _probatio_. The training schedule is rigorous and no one has much time at all for gawking at the daughters of centurions.

“I’m too busy with training,” was his most common excuse to long-lashed eyes batting for his attention.

“I wouldn’t want to put my family through it,” was his fall back if the person pressed him, declaring that surely, Connor must want to get married one day.

In truth, the idea terrifies him. More than once, Hank had taken him aside. They’d been awkward, forced conversations leaving both parties embarrassed and dissatisfied. Hank seemed disturbed by Connor’s disinterest in the fairer sex.

Connor couldn’t understand why Hank pushed so hard or why he wanted Connor to seriously consider finding a potential wife when he was years away from being eligible and Hank himself was unwed. Obviously, marriage isn’t a prerequisite to being a successful soldier.

“Why do you care so much?” Connor had challenged and Hank’s expression had grown quite odd. He’d attempted to speak then stopped several times before shrugging and letting the subject drop. The answer as to why Hank seemed so quietly desperate for Connor to show interest in women remained murky and unclear.

Things all but come to a head at the two-year mark of training when Connor joins the ranks of the Roman army as an official legionary. He wears the toga of a true citizen when not in training—a symbol of his adulthood and status. As a result, the elder men are less kind about Connor’s reticence regarding women, many of whom make several unpleasant remarks.

One terrifying evening, a great beast of a soldier corners him in the baths. His front teeth are black with rot and his breath stinks worse than a three-day-old chamber pot. He asks Connor indirect questions he doesn’t understand but assumes are inappropriate. They make his face burn and he pulls a cheap trick to evade the man’s caged arms.

Thrusting the heel of his palm into the man’s nose, he all but flees while shouldering into his training tunic. It’s growing late and he needs to get back to barracks. He collides head-on with the redhead he sees most often around camp. She’d earned a reputation among the men as a woman not be trifled with. In addition to having a centurion for a father, she had a formidable punch and wasn’t afraid to drive a knee into an unwanted advance.

“Get off me,” is her disgruntled initial response. Connor was already scrambling away from her before she could finish her sentence. Mumbling an apology, he turns to rush away.

“Oh,” her change in tone catches his attention and he slows, “it’s you.”

“What of it?” His voice comes out more defensive than he meant, but he’s even less interested than usual in rebuffing flirtatious women. The man’s foul breath still lingers in his nostrils and he wants to get as far from the baths as possible.

“Did you know women aren’t allowed to fight?” Her question knocks Connor off balance and his verbal defenses sink from his teeth like water into the ground. He nods and she gestures at him to follow. Still shaken from his encounter in the baths, his feet comply without his input.

“It seems unfair, don’t you think?” Connor gets the feeling that she’s testing him, asking one question while meaning another altogether. He glances over his shoulder in distracted worry, confirming the man isn’t pursuing him before answering.

“It never made much sense. Even if we can’t change the rules about the army, leaving women defenseless at home seems like asking for trouble. Especially with the war.” He’d obviously said the right thing because a smile flashes across her face more vibrant than he’s ever seen.

“My thoughts exactly, but father won’t even let me touch a sword much less consider teaching me to use one.” Her gaze rests pointedly on the training grounds where Connor had spent countless days working on his technique.

“Ohhh, no,” he holds up his hands in realization of where she is heading with this conversation. “Your father would kill m—” She cuts him off by abruptly shoving him up against the nearest wall, pinning him in place with her hand clapped over his mouth. Two slightly intoxicated soldiers come ambling by seconds later. Although he’s of age now, even adult soldiers in their early training years have strict limitations placed on their schedule. It isn’t technically after curfew yet, but it’s close enough to make both of them wary of being caught out this late.

Once the soldiers disappear into the baths, she lets her hand drop and whispers, “My idea isn’t a one-sided arrangement. At least hear me out.” He nods warily before shifting out from under her. It was disconcerting being manhandled by a woman.

“So what’s your idea then,” Connor mutters once they were in the relative safety of the dining hall. They can afford to linger indoors a little longer. The sleeping quarters for civilians aren’t far off nor are the barracks.

“They tease you,” she says in a matter of fact tone and Connor doesn’t argue. She’s witnessed Leo in particular harassing him on several occasions. “I have my own troubles in that area as well. My father insists I should have wed by now. I want no part of it. For now, mother keeps him at bay. She doesn’t care for the soldiering type and wants me to wed someone less likely to die on the end of a _pilum_. That won’t last, though. Not once the war ends.”

Connor grunts noncommittally and the girl rushes on, “I want to learn to fight—or at least protect myself. You aren’t the first person to collide into me.” Connor hears her tone and catches her drift. Some of the men could be a little handsy with the girls.

“What is it you think you can do for me if I stick my neck out for you?” This part Connor isn’t following and she rolls her eyes at him as if he is being particularly stupid.

“We go on walks together between training sessions and speak quietly. About swordplay, of course, but they don’t need to know that.” She waits for him to catch on with ill-disguised impatience. “My goodness, you are thicker than I thought. Everyone will think you’re interested in me, see? They’ll leave you alone about _that_.”

Connor wrinkles his nose at the way she says it, but understands the general plan, “So I teach you how to defend yourself and you pretend we’re…that...” he fades off, waving his hand vaguely between them.

Her mouth a thin line, she opens it to say flatly, “Yes. That is the gist of my offer. If we get caught, you can say you were just trying to get into my skirts.”

Connor is hesitant about the idea, but there is an undeniable appeal. The whispers will stop as will Hank’s awkward attempts to spring conversations about it on him. In the end, he extends his hand and they lock arms in agreement.

“You clearly know me,” Connor pries in an inquiring tone, realizing he doesn’t know the young woman’s name.

She grimaces before answering, “Honoria. My mother calls me Nora. Anyone who doesn’t want to get punched calls me North.”

Before Connor can inquire further, North continues the conversation for him, “And of course I know you, Connor. Everyone knows you,” she says it matter of factly and he blinks owlishly at her. “Henrik has a bit of a reputation.”

Connor startles at the information. He’d never heard anyone say anything of the sort. Well, other than Leo but he was a pompous windbag who—

The girl snaps her fingers in front of Connor’s face, “Woolgathering?” He gives her an apologetic look and motions for her to go on, “Henrik was always going to garner undo interest. He’s intimidating and from the north. We rarely see someone with such fair features this far south. It’s his love life, though, that causes most of the fuss. Or lack of it, anyway.”

Connor startles noticeably at this information and his hand freezes over a basket of leftover bread from dinner, “How do you mean?”

North doesn’t quite meet his gaze and a pink hue colors her cheeks, “He isn’t married. It’s…there are rumors. Some of them include you.”

Connor cocks his head at her, clearly not following. Irritated with his country bumpkin routine, she shoves aside her embarrassment, “People wonder if he takes you to bed. If that’s why you don’t like gir—” North cuts herself off when she sees the color drain from Connor’s face.

“That’s…he’s never…_what_?” It’s the first Connor’s heard of it, but it certainly explains _several_ things. The aggressive man in the baths for starters. _Pretty boy_, he’d called him. Some of his intrusive questions suddenly made more sense. He feels faintly ill realizing what the man had been after and what could have happened had he not evaded him.

“Soldiers are worse about gossip than old women. I didn’t realize you hadn’t heard. I think he feels bad about it. He watches you a lot, you know. Tries to keep you away from the rougher crowd.” Connor can tell North is holding back details for his sake, but he continues to stare at her as if she has three heads. “Connor, really. It’s not a big deal. It’s—”

“It’s _illegal_,” Connor snaps at her with misplaced aggression. He knows what happens to soldiers who take other men to their beds.

She rolls her eyes at him and her blasé manner cools some of his panic, “So is me wanting to join the legionaries, yet here we are.”

“What do you mean he watches me? I have a hard enough time scheduling meetings with him. He’s always working.” Connor tries to keep the petulance he feels from his tone. Hank doesn’t owe him anything, but he’d hoped to see more of him. He often found himself yearning for Hank’s counsel, but the man’s agenda was tighter than a formation line.

“He comes to all of the trials and matches. He’s hard to miss, honestly. He always sits in the balcony.” Connor mulls it over as a warm tingle envelopes his skin.

She has no reason to lie and he can’t quite keep the pleased smile from his face, “I didn’t know. I focus my attention on my sparring partner, not the audience.”

North gives him an unreadable look before changing the subject, “About sparring…”

“Right,” Connor mutters with a mental shake. “We’ll need someplace relatively private. You’ll need to learn proper form first so we won’t have to worry about sneaking weapons just yet…” North listens to Connor as he ticks off ideas on his fingers. Unlike his younger self, North doesn’t balk at learning the basics.

“Sorry,” Connor mumbles when he realizes he’s rambling. “The beginner stuff is a bit dull, but you can’t build any skills with a weak foundation.”

To his surprise, North grins and shoulder checks him, “I want to learn how to defend myself and to fight. Waving a sword around like a flashy troubadour won’t do me much good. I’m not interested in tricks. The basics are more than fine.”

The whispering picks up more fervently than ever the first time North links arms with Connor between training sessions, effectively squashing the teasing he’d endured for over two years. Heads bent near each other, they exchange hushed conversation about their plans during breaks for meals.

A confusing mix of emotions slither in his guts when Hank approaches him about it a fortnight later, “So. The redhead?”

Connor does his best to look innocent and like his black eye is not the result of North striking her pommel into his helmet in a poorly aimed strike. Although impatient, she was a force to be reckoned with. Connor’s quite certain she could best plenty of the younger trainees once she got her form under control.

“Her name is North,” he settles on a small truth to mask his larger duplicity.

Hank’s bright grin distracts him, “Well done, Connor!”

He preens at Hank’s hand clapping him on the back. The good feeling fades when Hank warns him to take precautions against pregnancy. He’s on the verge of assuring him that’s not necessary when he remembers this deception was entirely the point of his fake relationship with North. He frowns, torn between wanting to tell Hank the truth and wanting Hank to keep smiling at him with that overly pleased expression.

What North lacks in brute strength, she more than makes up for in tenacity. She manages to knock Connor on his back with the air punched out of his lungs after their third month of training. Staring down the length of her blade, he returns her grin and accepts her outstretched hand.

On another occasion half a year into her training, she manages to force him to admit defeat with a humiliating rapid tapping of his fingertips against her wrist. Realizing she was on the verge of losing the match, she threw her sword like a _pilum_, forcing Connor to turn. With his back to her, it hadn’t taken much effort for her to get her arm around his throat, kicking at the back of his knees.

Normally, he could escape such a hold, but his exhaustion from the day’s training left him too little strength to throw her off his back. She’d exploited his weakness beautifully, a lesson he’d transferred to her from Hank. Vision going mottled, he acquiesces and she releases him.

“Good gods above, North. I’m not sure I should keep teaching you these things,” he rasps out around compressed vocal cords. Sheathing her discarded practice sword, she arches an eyebrow at him.

Shaking his vision back into focus, he mutters, “Woe be unto the next man who accosts you outside the baths.”

She laughs uproariously, punching him lightly on the arm, “That _was_ the point of all this, Connor.”

Calling it for the day, they stow her practice sword and stroll back to the camp’s bustling center, making sure several people spot them arm in arm. Overall, the arrangement with North was going well. No one had pestered him in months about girls and North was more than tolerable as far as women went. He got the impression she had a similar outlook about him.

She could be a bit harsh, but at least she didn’t ask him inane questions about her clothes, hair, or looks like so many of the other girls were prone to do. The more he got to know her, he realized she felt much the same way about men as Connor did about women—more trouble than they were worth.

He’d noticed in recent weeks that the harder he trained with North in his free time, the more likely he was to dream. It felt as if his mind was too exhausted to properly settle down. The dreams often leave him addled and poorly rested. He falls asleep that night rubbing at his aching neck, not looking forward to his sparring matches in the morning.

The dream begins simple enough. He’s facing off against someone he assumes is North. He can’t see her face, as is the way of dreams sometimes, but the maneuvers are the ones they’d been practicing all week. It isn’t until he sees the person’s arms that he realizes he’s fighting against a man. A much larger, stronger man.

In the panicked style of dreams, his body refuses to comply with his thoughts. He moves agonizingly slow as if swinging his blade while underwater. The man, unhindered by such dreamscape trickery, is on him in an instant. It isn’t long before his opponent has him in a familiar chokehold, his arm squeezing Connor’s jugular.

He knows several ways to break such a hold, but his hands scrabble uselessly at the heavily muscled bicep and forearm. The man laughs and it’s a familiar sound he can’t quite place. His face grows warm with restricted blood while his chest burns from lack of air. His whole body tingles, every nerve ending screaming.

The man’s mouth brushes against his ear and a plume of heat blossoms against his skin where his lips touch. He speaks, but the words are lost in the roaring of blood pounding inside his head. He’s acutely aware of the hard planes of the man’s body pressed against him. He’s too close. He’s unbearably warm and Connor aches everywhere. As shining lights begin to stipple his vision, the man’s other hand snakes around and down his torso—

Connor startles awake, heart still thundering as if he’d truly been in a struggle for his life. As the sharp contours of the dream begin to fade into full consciousness, some of the ache recedes from his outer edges. It pools between his legs and he notices his uncomfortable arousal pressing into the thin bedding. The sound of snoring from below and all around him lets him know his squad mates are still asleep.

Not for the first time, Connor envies the squad leader and his modicum of privacy on the other side of the wall separating him from the rest of the squad. Connor decides it’s best to think of something else, _anything_ else, than dwell on what got him so flustered in the first place.

Not even drilling can push the memory of the dream completely from his mind. He burns through opponent after opponent, throwing all of his focus into the fight. He loses one but claims victory in the other four. His hair shifts in sweat-slick strands by the end of his fifth sparring match and loud clapping from above draws his attention.

Pushing his hair back and away from his face, he sees Hank leaning over the ledge of the parapet from the adjacent watchtower. His hair hangs loose and informal, a distinctly odd look for barracks life. Hank waves at him and Connor understands he wants him to join him in the tower.

“Great,” Connor mutters to himself, handing off his sparring sword to Simon as Daniel takes stock of the weapons in use. They both nod to him in unison. They were nicer than a lot of the other recruits Connor had gotten to know, but their synchronized movements were uncanny and a bit off-putting.

He’s halfway up the stone-flagged stairs when a familiar voice rumbles indistinct in the distance. Grinning, he quickens his pace despite his fatigue from excessive drilling and a ruined night of sleep.

Throwing the door wide, he strides over to the familiar albeit slightly rounder man than he remembered, “Ben!” Connor had always been taller than Ben and their time apart had added a few more inches to that fact. When Ben pulls him into a hug, Connor’s chin skims the top of his head.

“Ah, my _anaticula_. Let me look at you,” Ben grabs him by the biceps, holding him out from him like a merchant examining a gem for inconsistencies. Evidently finding nothing wrong, he beams at Connor, “My goodness, you’ve gotten tall.”

Hank laughs, interjecting himself into the reunion, “He’s grown a finger or two since you last saw him.”

Ben makes a _bah_ sound and waves his hands in Hank’s direction, “You work him too hard. I never see him. I’ve had to eat all the grapes by myself these past few years.” He pats his middle and everyone laughs at the gesture.

Ben turns a faux-stern finger in Connor’s direction, “And you! You hardly ever write! How am I supposed to keep up with your birthdays if you don’t remind me of them?”

“Well, our illustrious centurion can’t claim responsibility for my height, but it’s his fault none of us have time to write home,” Connor shoots a grin in Hank’s direction then ducks Hank’s hand taking aim at the back of his head. It’s lighthearted and lacks force. In the past year, Hank had been placed in charge of the entire camp. Connor had been happy for him, but Hank could be a bit of a relentless mule about their training schedule.

As much as Connor is glad to see Ben—it’s proving to be an effective distraction from his dream—he can’t help but feel a sinking sensation at his presence. Ben has never come to camp before. Hank and Connor had gone home a handful of times during breaks in training, but this felt different and significant.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here when you officially joined,” Ben says a few moments later and the mood in the room immediately grows quiet and somber. He looks from Hank to Connor then back again as if at a loss.

Catching Connor’s concerned expression, Hank sighs and runs a hand through his loose hair, “I asked Benny to come. To say goodbye.”

A nervous energy fills the room and Connor continues staring expectantly at Hank, “Word hasn’t spread yet, but the rest of the soldiers will know by morning. The war can’t wait any longer; any capable legionary is to join the main body of the army.”

Hank’s expression dampens much of Connor’s glee at finally being able to do something after years of routine training. When he first went through his probation period leading up to full enlistment, he hadn’t truly understood what war meant or how bad things had become. He was far enough out in the country surrounding Hank’s estate to insulate himself from news before he joined the camp. His hopes back then consisted mostly of childish daydreams about emerging victorious from glorious battles. Hank’s numerous commendations and battle scars likely had a lot to do with those pipe dreams.

After a couple of years’ worth of drilling and training, Connor knew better. If Hank is worried, there’s good reason he should be too.

“Why so grim, Hank?” It’s the first time in a long time that Connor calls Hank by his name rather than his rank outside of their return visits home.

The man softens slightly and makes a passable attempt at a tight smile, “The powers that be are sending us up north—to the front lines. I had hoped to keep you out of the fray.” Connor bristles noticeably at this statement, taking it as a judgment on his capability.

Hank laughs despite his dour mood, holding up his hands, “So quick to anger. It has nothing to do with _you_ and everything to do with most of these recruits being city boys with questionable aim and weaker spines. It feels like walking into a slaughter. I’ve tried reasoning with my command, but the war effort isn’t going as well as they would like. There isn’t any more time I can give to the less-skilled men among the legionaries.”

Connor nods, turning the words over in his mind, “Who will I report to?” Connor most often trained with a recently promoted centurion. He liked him well enough, but even Connor knew the man was too inexperienced to lead an actual assault.

Hank doesn’t argue with his unspoken assumption, “You’ll be with me. I want you with someone with actual combat experience. Most of the centuries are being reorganized to maximize their strengths.” Connor’s eyes rove over Hank’s bare arms, taking in scars from past battles. He was the only centurion in the entire camp who knew what it felt like to take a sword across the chest or an arrow to the calf.

The rest of the reunion and apparent farewell blurs in Connor’s mind. His brain is already charging into the future, into the war. He bids Ben goodbye, lets the man hug him, and then accepts a clap on the back from Hank before his feet guide him to a familiar abandoned field to wait.

North arrives shortly after and halts about ten paces from him, “What’s the matter with you?” He looks at her, realizing he’d been staring into the distance, imagining how his life is about to change. He doesn’t think about the dream—he _doesn’t_—but it lurks in the recesses of his mind. He has more important things to worry about now.

“The war is coming,” he says, feeling very stupid. Everyone knew that. It’s why the camp was made in the first place, but that had been over two and a half years ago—nearly three with summer sneaking in to boil spring away to a memory.

She flops onto the ground beside him, linking her arm with his. He gives her an odd look at the gesture and she sighs, “I know.”

Connor jerks his head around to look down at her, but she’s staring darkly at the horizon. Still, she can sense his question, “I overheard father telling mother last night. She’s been crying all day.”

“What will you do?” He asks the question mostly to avoid talking about the daunting immediate future. She shakes her head and he sees her wipe angrily at her face.

“I don’t know,” she says several seconds later in a quiet voice. “Father’s only left for war once before and I was too young to remember. The only good thing about this is that they won’t pester me about getting married. Mother won’t want to be a-alone.” Her voice cracks on the last word and Connor withdraws his arm from hers to give her a one-armed hug.

“Are you scared?” She asks when Connor drops his hand in favor of lying back in the grass to take in the clear blue sky. She mimics him, waiting for an answer.

He turns the question over in his mind, but, try as he might, he can’t muster up anything other than blank disbelief, “Not really, no. Is that odd?”

North shrugs and the dry grass rustles beneath her shoulder blades, “No idea.” She’s quiet for a moment then laughs; it’s more amused than bitter, but Connor can still hear the ominous undercurrent, “They must think we’re saying our goodbyes.”

Connor gives her a questioning look and she rolls her eyes, “You _know_.” When he shakes his head, she laughs again, “They probably think we’re having a tearful parting between lovers.” Connor laughs with her this time then chokes when she deadpans, “Well. That or fucking.”

Immediately, a vivid, too-bright memory of an arm around his neck and a hand ghosting over his waist burns like a brand across his mind at her words. He scrubs at his eyes as if he can rub out the memory of the dream. He grumbles several profane words under his breath until North prods him in his side.

“What has your toga in a knot?” He grimaces at her choice of words. He can’t tell her about the dream. He doesn’t doubt her discretion so much as he doesn’t want to say the words out loud.

Instead, his mind spits out something else equally mortifying, “Did people really think that Hank and I…?” His mouth clamps shut halfway around the question. If North finds the abrupt shift in conversation odd, she doesn’t let on.

She nods, “Some still do.” Connor goes rigid, a mix of indignation, embarrassment, and quiet curiosity simmering under his skin.

“Why?” He asks the question quietly and North props herself up on one arm. Gazing down at him, she gives him an oblique look before leaning closer to his face. He stares at her wide-eyed and as immobile as a statue. Her lips brush against his. They’re warm and soft, but he feels nothing from her touch other than mild discomfort at her proximity. When she pulls back, she looks the same as always: slightly angry with sharp edges. She appears as equally unmoved by the kiss as Connor.

“If you could see your face, you’d understand why our little charade isn’t fooling everyone.” Her voice is soft and, for the first time, Connor wonders why North cringes away so harshly from marriage. He’d assumed it was her independent streak—that she didn’t want to be beholden to a man. Now he’s questioning if men themselves are her problem with marriage more so than the institution itself.

When he sits up and brings his hand to his mouth, North stares at him slightly panicked, “Was that your first kiss?” He nods and she curses a blue streak that would make some soldiers blush, “I’m sorry, Connor. I was trying to prove a point and—sorry.”

She slumps dejectedly and he laughs, “It’s fine. It was fine.” She makes a rude gesture with her hand and he laughs.

When she’s done scowling, she says quietly, “That’s why, though. It isn’t any one thing he’s done or that you’ve said, but…” She fades off, her mouth set in a contemplative twist, “You react to him. He shows you preferential treatment—don’t look at me like that, I’ve seen how he is with the other soldiers. More than one legionary has cursed your name, wishing they were you.”

When Connor rises to his feet in irritation, she follows suit and amends her statement slightly, “I’m not saying you didn’t earn your status as a legionary by any means. I’m just saying that Henrik has gone out of his way on numerous occasions to make your life a little easier and to keep you near him. I also see how he looks at you.”

Connor’s head whips around to meet her gaze, “What do you mean?” The words come out flecked with a tinge too much of interest to be an innocent question.

Her expression falls when she sees his earnest face, “Oh, Connor.” Her palm touches his cheek briefly as if she’s trying to console him, “Don’t fall in love with him. Don’t.”

His eyes go more round than he thought possible at her words, “I—don’t be ridicul—what?”

North eyes him, her mouth an unamused line, “You glow when he praises your performance. You yearn to impress him. It’s like you’re operating at partial capacity until he looks at you.”

Connor stares at her, disbelief clear on his features, “I want to impress _all_ of the centurions, not just Han—”

She waves her hand in a negating gesture, “You just had your first kiss at the age of twenty from a girl who doesn’t even like—” she cuts herself off with a sharp breath, “I have more experience in this arena, is what I mean. You may know your way around the battlefield, but you know nothing of love.”

Stung, Connor kicks at a tuft of sun-bleached grass. For the sake of being juvenile, he mutters petulantly, “I’ll not be twenty for another three months.”

North crosses her arms and plasters a comically grumpy expression on her face. Pitching her voice low, she employs a sing-songy tone, “I’ll not be twenty for—”

“Oh, shut up,” Connor can’t help but laugh and North joins him. She grows quiet as if uncertain if she should continue down this avenue of conversation.

Connor can’t help it. He needs to know, “So how does he look at me, then? If we’re both so infatuated with one and other, it must be some type of stare.”

North shoves her shoulder into his, “Don’t be so dramatic.”

She falls silent again, but Connor can tell she’s thinking. She starts slowly, “He looks at you like…like a peasant looks at a prize turkey hanging at a butcher shop.” Connor wrinkles his nose at this comparison, which she ignores, “He knows he can’t have it and that to take it would land him in a lot of trouble. It’s too large to hide and he’d be caught with it sooner or later before he could find someplace to devour it in private.”

“That,” Connor begins on a wheeze, “is quite the visual.”

She tilts her head back and forth, “It’s true.”

“How long?” He asks after a lengthy, tense pause.

“I don’t know, honestly. At first, he was just protective. He kept you away from the more undesirable crowds. Henrik’s always come to your matches as well, but his focus has seemed more intense these past few months. Fierce, proud, and something else.” Connor’s on the verge of prodding her for more information when she adds quietly, “Look. I could be wrong, but I’ve only seen men look at someone like that when they’re _interested_.”

Her words skitter around in his head until he comes to a disturbing conclusion, “Is that why he was pushing me to find a girl?”

North shrugs but then nods, “Probably. It’s easier to keep away from someone if they’re spoken for.” Her voice grows sour around the words as if she sucked on a lemon.

“Is that what happened to you?” Connor asks quietly and misery lines every angle of her face. She nods but doesn’t speak.

Eventually, her hand finds his again, “It isn’t fair, what we’ve been doing.” Connor ducks his head in agreement and she rushes onward, “Pretending that we like each other. Pretending that it’s what we want.” Her voice cracks and he pulls her into a hug. From a distance, he’s sure it looks like two lovers saying goodbye. Up close, it’s two young people acknowledging what they want doesn’t align with what they can have.

“I know,” he says into the space over her head. He wishes more than anything that he could be enough for North. He wishes he wanted to take her to bed and that she wanted to be his wife. But wishes don’t pave the road to happiness and he couldn’t fake love if he tried. Quite frankly, he doesn’t want to; he’d rather be alone.

He pretends for her one more time and acts as if he doesn’t know she’s crying. Eventually, she pulls away. By then her cheeks are dry, but her eyes are glassy. They sit in mutual silence. He’d meant to come here to break it to her that he was leaving, meaning an end to her training. Instead, he’d had to face a question about himself that he’d been burying in the sand.

Sleep doesn’t come for him that night. Flipping himself over for the fourth time, the bunkmate below him mutters a few curses in Connor’s direction. Connor exhales stress before vaulting from the top bunk.

“Where’re ya going?” A sleepy voice calls out. It’s well after curfew, but his mind is buzzing as if hundreds of bees took up residence in his brain.

“To piss,” he whispers back. The man hisses back to use the chamber pot before Connor gets them all in trouble.

“They’re full,” he tells the lie with ease and slips away without further challenge. He thinks he hears one of them mention North’s name. Of course, he thinks to himself, they think he’s sneaking off for one last fuck. The bitter seed in his stomach blossoms into something close to rage. North deserves better. He deserves better.

He knows where his feet are taking him, but he’s still surprised when he finds himself outside Hank’s door. His arm raises to knock, but freezes when he hears someone mention his name.

“Henrik, look me in the eye and tell me this is in Connor’s best interest,” hearing Ben’s voice shocks Connor into dropping his fist. He thought he’d left already. He knows eavesdropping is a lowly thing to do, but they’re talking about _him_.

“Benny, I have no idea what you’re talk—” Something smacks against a table, likely Ben’s fist.

“Dammit, Henrik! You think I don’t know you? I’ve seen how you look at him. Something’s changed. Tell me honestly, why are you keeping him close to you? Do you truly believe his command is incapable of keeping him alive?” When Hank doesn’t answer right away, something constricts in Connor’s chest.

When Hank does speak, carefully controlled anger saturates his words, “Of what do you accuse me, Veniamin?”

Something falls to the floor—a chair if Connor had to guess. Ben must’ve stepped back quickly, “N-Nothing, Henrik. But…I care a great deal about you and the boy. I don’t want to see either of you in troub—”

Hank interrupts him and Connor could crow at his rebuttal, “Connor hasn’t been a boy since the day he earned _civitas_. He’s a fine man and a better soldier. He needs a capable command. That’s the end of it.”

Connor hears Ben sigh and then a patting sound. Hank grunts as if throwing off a gentle touch, “Are you sure that’s all it is, Henrik? It’s not good to do this to yourself if—”

Hank cuts him off again, “It’s all there _can_ be, Benny. I’m not a fool. I know when I’m being watched. That, and there are the laws of this country’s so-called _enlightened society_—puritanical would be more accurate. Regardless, I’ve taken measures; I don’t believe Connor suspects. I don’t want him questioning his skills or his place among the soldiers. He earned that himself.” Connor’s heart hammers so loudly in his chest, he’s afraid Hank will hear it through the door. As it is, he finds himself pressed up against it, wishing he could see Hank’s expression.

“Besides,” Hank’s voice takes on a dejected quality, “he’ll be of marrying age soon. He’s found himself a girl. It’s only a matter of time.”

Ben makes a sympathetic sound before speaking, “You should be happy for him, Henrik. Don’t waste your good years yearning for the impossible.”

Hank exhales a loud sigh before muttering something Connor can barely hear, “Good years, ha. I’m old.”

Ben laughs and it comes deep from within his generous belly, “Watch who you’re calling old, Henrik.” Connor smiles at the familiar argument between the two friends before creeping away. He has too much to process to talk to Hank now. It can wait. There will be time.

Slipping back into his bed, he suppresses a groan. While there are no official drills on schedule for tomorrow since they’re readying for war travel, he knows the sun will rise sooner than he would like. Exhausted mentally and emotionally, Hank’s words can’t penetrate his brain. At face value, it seems obvious—North was right in her assumptions about Hank—but neither of the men had come out and said the words. He couldn’t be sure.

_Why does it matter? _

Connor ignores the question, not wanting to open a wound he didn’t know existed until today. It shouldn’t matter. If Hank was talking about what Connor thought he was talking about, there was nothing for it anyway. Why bother unboxing his own feelings just to discover heartache beneath the lid?

_Don’t fall in love with him_.

North’s words pick a fine time to come back to him and he rolls onto his side, pulling a thin blanket over his head as if he can hide from his thoughts. Instead, vivid images from his dream take the opportunity to assault his tightly closed eyes.

A man, pressed up against him.

A hand, sliding roughly over his waist, inching downward.

He bites his cheek until he tastes blood and the only thing he can focus on is the pain in his mouth. Eventually, fatigue consumes him and he falls into a fitful sleep. He’s unsurprised to find the man is back, and the dream picks up where it left off before.

The only difference this time is he can understand the words when the man speaks, even if they reach him as if shouted across a lake. There’s something familiar about the hand pressed against his stomach. He would try to figure out what it was if he wasn’t distracted by how it was making him feel. Hot, desperate, needy.

The man isn’t gentle in his dream, manhandling Connor in a way that would be unseemly of a roman warrior. The shame only seems to fuel his arousal as the dream him arcs when the man, still gripping his throat, sneaks a hand between the folds of Connor’s toga.

The man murmurs encouragement to him, whispers lewd things that make him blush, and speaks in hushed tones that send a shiver through his entire body.

He can’t pin down the voice but dream Connor seems wholly unconcerned about solving the mystery. The individual knows his name, but that’s not a helpful clue. Connor would wonder why his dream keeps the man in shadow, but he has other immediate concerns.

The faceless person’s hands shift into something more teasing than rough. He touches him in ways that make Connor burn with embarrassment and lust. His chest heaves with the need for release.

The man murmurs a constant torrent of praise, repeating his name. Connor bucks frantically into his grip. The man’s shifts against him and it sends an agonizing tremor of lust across Connor’s skin; something about his tone is familiar and it’s as terrifying as it is intoxicating.

Connor opens his eyes a fraction, peering at the indistinct form of whoever is bringing him to the brink of bone-shattering satisfaction. His lips part and a single word dances across his tongue, as delicate and sweet as honeysuckle, “Hank.”

_Oh._

Blue eyes blink into existence, boring into Connor’s molten gaze. He spasms beneath that stare, his release more complete than any he’s had before.

Bolting upright in his bed, Connor’s heart thuds a panicked tattoo in his chest. Midmorning sun streams into the room; the rest of his squad is already awake and milling around outside.

_Hank. Hank’s hands. Hank’s touch. Hank’s—_

“Oh, no,” he whispers to the empty room, his head sinking into his hands. Falling to his side, he curls his legs up to his sticky chest and leans his forehead against his knees. Fisting his fingers into his hair, he mutters into the flesh of his thighs, “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor knew he was lucky to count himself among the _principes_. The miserable sods stuck with the _hastati_ had limited weaponry and only chainmail to defend their bodies. Hank had enough wealth and experience to rise to the _triarii_ if he wanted, and Connor used to wonder why he hadn’t already. After his talk with North, he had a nagging sensation that Hank reigned in his career to remain close to Connor. 
> 
> The thought makes him flush, and it mingles with the sun-reddened rouge already darkening his cheeks. The days of marching under an unforgiving sun had brought certain spots out from hiding under his skin and the twins had taken to calling him _Ephelides_ as a result. He didn’t mind; there were worse nicknames to have and he rather liked the random adornments to his skin.
> 
> He doesn’t give his freckles much thought after that until blood splatters across his face in battle in a macabre imitation of the spots. Following the skirmish, he spends twenty minutes trying to scrub every mark from his skin—sun kissed or otherwise.

**Principes**: Heavier equipped and more experienced infantry fighters.  
**Hastati: **The poorest soldiers with very basic equipment. They took the brunt of initial battle.  
**Triarii**: The oldest and wealthiest soldiers often with the best equipment.   
**Ephelides**: Freckles  
**Contubernia**: The smallest unit of soldiers in the Roman army (8 legionaries to each one)  
**Primus Pilus**: The lead centurion.  
  
It’s easy to ignore what had happened the first few weeks on the road. The main body of the army is a little more than 200 kilometers to the northeast and moving that many men, supplies, and gear takes time. They travel 30-35 kilometers a day, stopping to wait out the worst of the heat. Dust sticks to their ankles like leather shoes they can’t peel off.

Men begin to grumble of footsoreness on the third day and the pace droops accordingly. As much as Connor would like to chalk up their complaints as an adjustment period, he’s seen the blisters bigger than a _quadrans_ coin on Daniel’s big toe and Simon’s heel. They limp through it as best they can and Connor tries to distract them from their pain with bawdy marching songs. The twins may be odd, but Connor has never been one to sit by and watch someone suffer in pain—especially not if he could offer something to alleviate it.

Connor misses North’s sharp elbows when Leo’s peevishness devolves into outright whining. He could stand to have a sharp joint crammed into his ribs to shut him up. Connor notices several disapproving glances shot in Leo’s direction and he hisses at him to shut his mouth, “Do you want the centurions to come down on you? You embarrass yourself with this endless moaning.”

Leo tells Connor to go do something anatomically impossible and Connor puts as much distance between himself and the pissant as possible. He’s unsurprised when one of the centurions singles Leo out at the end of the day. It takes three legionaries to strap him to posts before the centurion metes out twenty lashes.

Throwing the whip into the dirt, the centurion addresses the on looking soldiers, “This is the punishment for anyone else who wants to complain about serving the empire.” Connor can’t help but look at Leo’s marked back. The centurion had gone easy on him, that much was clear. The skin was mostly unbroken with only a few abrasions. Not of noble birth, Connor doubts he’d be shown such leniency.

Looking away from Leo’s shuddering form, not wanting to watch the man further embarrass himself with his weeping, his eyes meet a fierce blue gaze. His skin ripples like water heated over an open flame as the memory of the eyes in his dream hit him full force. The expression is exactly the same right down to the size, shape, and sharp glint. The exhaustion of walking and the anticipation of war had held it at bay, but it demands its due under the look Hank gives him.

_I’ve only seen men look at someone like that when they’re_ _interested._

North’s words whisper against his ears and he has to suppress a shudder. Instead, he nods at Hank and the large man gestures back before directing his attention to the centurion who just took Leo to task. It only takes one more flogging for the men of noble birth to get the message: money and social rank offer limited protection in times of war. The complaining quiets down to dark mutterings between friends during breaks for meals.

Ten men to a tent stacked head by head doesn’t allow for much comfort or wandering thoughts at night. Connor’s body aches in places he didn’t know could hurt so much, but his feet are blessedly made of tougher stuff than many of his peers. Although very sore, they remain free of blisters. The grit of dirt, however, never seems to leave his teeth. He can taste it like earthy ash against his tongue and feel the sandy texture of it when he bites down.

Connor knew he was lucky to count himself among the _principes_. The miserable sods stuck with the _hastati _had limited weaponry and only chainmail to defend their bodies. Hank had enough wealth and experience to rise to the _triarii_ if he wanted, and Connor used to wonder why he hadn’t already. After his talk with North, he had a nagging sensation that Hank reigned in his career to remain close to Connor.

The thought makes him flush, and it mingles with the sun-reddened rouge already darkening his cheeks. The days of marching under an unforgiving sun had brought certain spots out from hiding under his skin and the twins had taken to calling him _Ephelides_ as a result. He didn’t mind; there were worse nicknames to have and he rather liked the random adornments to his skin.

He doesn’t give his freckles much thought after that until blood splatters across his face in battle in a macabre imitation of the spots. Following the skirmish, he spends twenty minutes trying to scrub every mark from his skin—sun kissed or otherwise.

War is hard and dirty. It’s not a new concept for Connor, but it’s one thing to know and another to live it. The first time Connor has to take a life, it puts him off food for two days. Eventually, Hank speaks to him.

“This is part of it. No one should _like_ to kill, but you need to tighten your laces and get back into the fight. Your reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed.” Hank doesn’t look in the direction of his fellow centurions, but his hand tightens around his staff meaningfully. Connor gets the message. The centurions are reading his distaste for bloodshed as unmanly.

It takes two more major battles and a small skirmish before Connor can throw off his squeamishness about death. It wasn’t the killing itself that bothered him; he knew their fight was an honorable one and he granted all his enemies a death worthy of a soldier. It was the finality of it all and facing his own very real mortality. Stitching his own thigh closed after a close encounter with a spear, he decides he doesn’t have room for fear.

Hank doesn’t seem to let go of the issue as easily as Connor does. He hovers, always nearby without actually speaking to him. The charade carries on for months before Connor’s finally had enough. It’s been almost half a year since they set out to fight the war and the battles don’t seem to be bringing them any closer to a resolution. He doesn’t need a babysitter to watch over him like a fragile child.

When Connor spots Hank surreptitiously watching him during a routine patrol, he makes a point of securing eye contact and pouring all of his irritation into his gaze. Hank’s eyes widen then narrow before he begins making his way in Connor’s direction. Not waiting for a reprimand, Connor mutters to Daniel to take his watch. He stomps off to a nearby stream the men had been using in an attempt to maintain hygiene.

The stream itself was quite beautiful when it wasn’t marred with dirt and mud from battle-weary soldiers. In the few quiet minutes Connor can steal here and there, he always finds himself here. The leaves on the trees are still mostly green, but he can see the first signs of yellowing on the highest branches. Weather from draught or the cooler night air, he can’t be sure. As expected, a large shadow engulfs his own where he sits crouched by the water, scrubbing at his hair. One spiked _caliga_ then another steps next to him in the dust, evidently waiting.

With a sigh, Connor rises to face Hank, “Is there something I can help you with, Centur—”

Years of training prepared Connor for Hank’s backhanded strike. He’d been expecting it. No one was allowed to show blatant disrespect to a superior officer no matter how well they knew him. He dodges it easily enough and Hank begins to pursue him in earnest.

Connor knows Hank surpasses him in hand-to-hand combat and that this fight will end poorly for him if he doesn’t make strategic decisions. Part of him wonders if the wisest course of action is to throw himself at Hank’s feet and accept the inevitable lashing. A much larger, louder part of him thundering through his veins wants to prove a point. He isn’t sure what point that is exactly, but it doesn’t matter. Flesh pounds against flesh and Connor’s blood sings as it courses under his skin.

Hank lands a strike and Connor’s vision swims alarmingly. He needs to think, but Hank circling him like a predator about to devour his prey is an enraging distraction. Connor is no sheep; he will not fall so easily. Intel rises from the murky depths of memory and Connor strikes out at Hank’s ankle. The big man drops to one knee and it’s the only shot Connor has to take him.

How many times had North done this to him in a last-ditch effort to win their mock battles? How many times had he dreamed of Hank pressed against him just like this but in reverse? The memories are disconcerting and incongruous with the situation at hand.

His bicep locked around Hank’s throat from behind, he grips his own wrist to secure the hold and hangs on for dear life. This isn’t a play fight and Connor can tell Hank is livid at the cheap shot. Still, he isn’t prepared for Hank to flip him over his own head. Landing flat on his back, the wind rushes from Connor’s lungs. The added weight of his armor does nothing to ease the burden.

He’s dimly aware of Hank’s hacking cough as he tries to will oxygen back into his own body and Connor struggles to his feet before Hank can pin him down. Chest heaving and blood pounding, he drops his wary stance when Hank emits a half-strangled, low-pitched chuckle.

“Good, ach,” he breaks off in a cough before trying again. “Good gods, boy. Who taught you to fight like that?” A ghost of a grin tugs at Connor’s mouth even if he’s still annoyed with Hank’s ill-disguised hovering. He feels the fight leech through his feet into the dirt. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never doubt the simple truth that some arguments between friends are best duked out with fists. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear North spit out a disgusted “_Men!_” at their behavior.

“A rather large and overbearing hen once told me of a certain centurion’s bad ankle,” Connor tries his luck and earns a sharp look for his efforts.

“Some little ducks could use more watching than others.” Before Connor can do much more than make an angry face, Hank cuts him off, “You’ve gone from one extreme to another. Your timidity has given way to a ferociousness in battle that borders on recklessness.”

Connor’s mouth droops open slightly and he stammers, “Are you…I—you _told_ me to toughen up. Now you want me to, what, go crochet some blankets like an elderly grandmother?”

Although still clearly annoyed with Connor, the frown lines in Hank’s face soften, “I forget how literal you are sometimes.”

“Maybe you’d know me better if you ever spoke with me.” The words are out of Connor’s mouth before he can think them through and he has to resist the urge to clap a hand over his face.

They appear to wound Hank more than anger him, “I know you better than you think.” His voice is quiet and steady, “I know what it’s like to want to prove yourself, to show how strong you are. You don’t need to, not with me. I _see _you.”

Something rigid inside Connor buckles at the admission and a question he’s been longing to know the answer to spills over his lips with the unstoppable force of a waterfall, “But do you like what you see?”

Something akin to pain flashes across Hank’s face. His mouth opens to answer and Connor can’t breathe, “Connor, I—”

A sudden, shrill alarm resounds from the camp behind them and both men turn to look at it before meeting each other’s gaze.

Hank unsheathes his sword and nods his head at Connor, “A conversation for another time.”

“An ambush?” Connor mutters more to himself than to Hank under his breath, but the centurion bobs his head in agreement all the same. Gripping his own sword, he follows Hank into the fray.

The scene that greets them is utter chaos. The stillness of battle courses through Connor’s veins. Time seems to slow as he takes stock of what his eyes can see. The attackers had taken several _contubernia_ by surprise if the fields of tents in flames were anything to go by. Connor hears men screaming and dimly registers the sound of death around him before he moves into action.

Dashing to a stack of _pilums_, Connor shoulders one before hurling it at a man bearing down on Leo. It finds its home between the man’s ribs right in the exposed gap tying his cuirass front to back. To his credit, Leo gives him a nod of thanks and turns to face another attack.

It doesn’t take Connor long to find what remains of his squad. Daniel and Simon move as one, back to back, and hopelessly surrounded by enemy soldiers. Connor can see the grim set of Daniel’s jaw and the barely contained fear churning behind Simon’s blue eyes. They know they’re dead; it’s just a matter of how long it will take and how painful it will be.

Connor’s sword slashes along one man’s neck then another’s before he realizes he charged. Bellowing a wordless cry, his sword takes a third surprised enemy across the nose and eye, sending him shrieking to the ground. Hot blood spurts across Connor’s neck in a filthy necklace as he dispatches the fallen warrior. Recovering from their shock, the twins resume fighting in earnest.

Hank emerges into Connor’s peripheral like a golden, bloodied god. His white-blonde hair and sun-browned skin make him look otherworldly and men fall beneath his blade with sickening ease. Connor’s on the verge of regrouping with Daniel and Simon when an all-to-familiar shout of pain seizes his senses.

Whirling back around, Hank is prone on the ground as his hand reaches futilely for his sword just out of reach. He has an angry purple mark across his weak ankle and an enemy soldier grins maliciously as he grinds his boot into it. Hank rolls from the pain and a well-aimed sword strike, but he’s weaponless.

Now on his back, Connor can see wide blue eyes glaring at the enemy with an upraised sword. Hank braces his hands in an X over his face, curling onto his side to try to protect his most sensitive organs. The blow never comes.

Steel clashes against steel and Hank looks up to see Connor straddling his body. His muscles contract and contort as he drives the soldier back, fueled entirely by rage. Hank rises, injured but not out of the fight. Snatching at a bow sitting loosely in a lifeless hand on the ground, he sends three arrows in rapid succession into the neck of a man approaching Connor’s flank. At the same moment, Connor’s sword plunges into Hank’s attacker, ripping open an artery in his upper thigh. The man goes down with a shout of fear before Connor relieves his body of its head.

Hank stares in awe at the sheer strength and force such an action requires before the fight demands his attention. Side by side, Hank and Connor dispatch two more men apiece as injured soldiers do their best to put out flames. They need the supplies as much as they need able-bodied men. It becomes clear that the ambush wasn’t well thought out or organized. While it had certainly been brutal, the _cohort_ loses fewer men than their attackers do. The fight ends as suddenly as it began with no explanation.

Pacing furiously outside the blackened tents, Connor waits with ill-disguised impatience for Hank to emerge from the tactical tent. To hell with rank and rules, he just wants to know that Hank is all right. When Hank throws back a muddy flap, weariness coats his face more thoroughly than the blood of their enemies has.

He stops to stare at Connor and both men stand in mute surveillance of the other, “Are you ok?”

They both ask the question at the same time and Hank’s mouth curls up at the corner; the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “I’ll be fine. You look quite the sight. You should clean up before you rest. Blood will go sticky with time and the stench is unbearable.”

Connor looks down at his own tunic for the first time since ripping off his armor following the impromptu fight. His armor shielded his chest and crotch from blood spray, but his arms are marked to the elbows with coppery brown. His legs aren’t much better and a shiver grips him. The whispers of dead men lurk in the dust behind him and he gladly follows Hank away from them back to the stream.

Plunging his hands into the tepid water, murky plumes of brown swirl in the current away from his stained skin, “Where in the hell did they come from?” Connor hears himself ask the question even if he’s transfixed by all the ichor he’s washing off his arms.

“We aren’t sure,” Hank sighs from much closer than Connor anticipated. Startled, he glances to his right, noting Hank soaking a poultice bag before resting it on his swollen ankle. Connor makes a frustrated sound, working at his _caligae _lacings with brutality.

Frustrated, he tries to rip one off well before it’s loose enough and Hank’s hand rests on his. Connor watches in silence as the large man works the lacings open and slips the sandaled boot from his heel. Connor does the second on his own, stealing furtive glances at Hank. They wash their legs and feet, both watching the gore of battle fade from their shins.

“It almost doesn’t feel real,” Connor mutters while looking at his near-pristine skin. No signs of the fight remain other than the blood staining the hem of his tunic.

“But it was,” Hank rumbles back. “I’m to go on a scouting mission.”

It takes Connor several seconds to react to the information, “But—why you?”

Hank gestures at his bad ankle with a grimace, “I won’t be much use in a fight and we have enough brainpower here to support ten armies. If I play the stealth card right, it won’t matter that I have a bum leg. It’ll give it time to heal as well.”

“When do you leave?” The question comes out tight, but Connor manages to keep the fear from his tone. Going it alone on a scouting mission while injured sounded like a death wish.

He raises his eyebrows at Hank’s answering grin, “You mean when do _we_ go. You did well today. The _Primus Pilus_ commented on your valor.” Connor flushes with a mixture of pride and embarrassment at such direct praise. His heart beats a little faster realizing this means he’ll be traveling alone with Hank. No prying eyes, but nowhere to hide from the man either.

“Alright,” Connor exhales a few moments later, “when do we leave?”

It takes all of ten minutes for Connor to decide he doesn’t like scouting missions. Hank’s extreme paranoia is warranted given that their lives are at stake if they’re caught. Even so, absolute silence becomes painfully boring in short order. Pulling his horse by the lead, they plod on as quietly as they can manage. Once the foot trail hits the stream, Hank motions that they should follow the water.

After what feels like hours but it likely only a handful of minutes, Connor hisses, “Hank, is this really necessary?”

Hank flaps his hand at Connor without looking at him in a silent reprimand. Connor takes advantage of Hank’s turned back to roll his eyes and make a rude hand gesture in his direction.

It isn’t until they set up camp for the night that Connor understands he and Hank are meant to share a tent. He realizes belatedly that it was obvious given how lightly they were traveling, but the sight of the single tent punches some of the air from his lungs all the same. He bites into a leathery strip of dried meat to occupy his mouth. It should prevent him from saying something embarrassing at any rate.

After scouting the area for a quarter of an hour, Hank deems it safe enough to talk. He passes Connor a skin of _posca_ and Connor chokes when he takes a hearty sip. Hank’s hand thunders across his back and nearly unseats him from his perch on a fallen log.

“That,” Connor wheezes when he finally catches his breath, “is not diluted.”

Hank grins at him then brings a finger to his lips, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” With a wink, he takes a long pull of the wine then hands it back to Connor. It goes horridly with the salted meat, but it’s a luxury from home that he hasn’t had in a long time.

When the sun sets, Connor’s nerves return full force. Not even the impromptu alcohol can stave off the trepidation of laying side by side with Hank. They hadn’t had a chance to finish their conversation from before the attack, and Hank hadn’t seemed inclined to pick it back up while on the road.

When Connor ducks under the flap, Hank is already stripped down to his underclothes. Connor does his best not to stare, but there isn’t much else to look at in the tent. Averting his gaze to his road-weary feet, he shimmies out of his over clothes. With absurd speed, he darts under the thin blanket. It’s lightweight and doesn’t offer much in the way of warmth, but it helps him feel less exposed.

Hank slipping beneath the ratty blanket shatters the illusion. Connor’s skin erupts in gooseflesh, his arm hairs standing at the ready on high alert. Hank’s so close, Connor swears he can feel his exhaled breath against his neck.

Connor’s entire body is screaming at the nearness and he simultaneously wants to flee and roll over to face the question burning in his skull head-on. He settles for the middle ground.

“Hank?” His voice is barely above a whisper and Hank murmurs back a sleepy _hmm?_

Trying to suck in a steadying breath without being obvious about it, Connor releases his question into the darkening dome of the tent, “Before the attack, you said you saw me.”

Hank breathes out a quiet sigh and the warmth of it washes over Connor’s cheek, “Yeah?”

Connor swallows and the sound of it crackles in his ears, “And I asked…I asked if you liked it. Me. What you saw.” He stumbles through it hastily and awkward, but at least the question is out of his mouth. It bounces around in the limited space between them and Connor waits.

He counts to three and waits some more. He counts to seven and is on the verge of turning to his side to face Hank when the man lets out a thunderous snore. Connor groans loudly, fisting the heels of his palms into his eyes, “Oh, come on. No one falls asleep that fast.”

Hank’s response is to make a sucking snorting sound before mumbling, “Good Sumo,” under his breath and patting Connor uncomfortably hard on the belly.

Dreading the dawn, Connor is almost certain he isn’t going to get any sleep and will have to travel on exhaustion and tough meat alone. He’s startled out of his half-dazed trance when Hank’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. His fingers are rough and warm against Connor’s freezing skin.

“You’re cold.” He doesn’t ask it as a question given Connor’s obvious shivering. He hadn’t meant to wake Hank. In the warm space that exists between full consciousness and dreaming, he hadn’t noticed how much he was shaking from the cold. Now fully awake, the chill of cool night air licks at any exposed skin. It’s not quite fall, but the sun took all its warmth with it when it set.

“I’m fine,” Connor mutters back, curling in more on himself. He wishes they could have a fire without fear of being spotted and summarily executed by the enemy.

He jerks badly when Hank scoots closer, pressing his chest flush to Connor’s quivering back. Warmth immediately flows through him at the contact, but its source isn’t from Hank’s body heat. He’s almost certain his face is a deeper red than the raspberries that grow wild in the thickets around Hank’s villa.

“You’ll get sick if you’re cold for too long,” Hank offers by way of explanation. His lips brush the ends of Connor’s overgrown hair as he speaks and Connor shivers again. Misreading the reaction, Hank mumbles, “Gods, boy. You can’t be this cold.” His arm reaches around and over Connor to pull him closer. Air doesn’t seem to want to leave Connor’s lungs. How Hank can’t hear or feel his rabbiting heartbeat is beyond comprehension.

Connor remains ramrod straight and far too rigid for comfortable sleeping. His muscles are taut and ready to spring into action at the slightest directive. It takes Connor several minutes to realize Hank is once again asleep and clearly not struggling with internal battles regarding his feelings. Cursing Hank’s broad chest and thickly muscled biceps, Connor pretends not to notice how he fits perfectly in Hank’s arms.

When the sun rises, Connor awakes to a chilly, empty tent. Glancing down at his tented underclothes, he is deeply grateful that Hank isn’t around to witness his morning arousal. By the time he wills it away, he can hear a small fire crackling.

Emerging from the tent, Hank shoots him a smirk, “Someone is behind his time. Sunrise was nearly an hour ago.” Connor mutters darkly about what Hank can do with his sunrise and the large man chuckles. He tosses Connor a roughly sewn sack dripping an unknown substance from the bottom.

It comes away red on his hands and he nearly drops it until he hears Hank’s barking laugh, “It’s berries, Connor. Freshly picked while you snored away.” Eagerly upending the bag into his hand, plump berries come tumbling into his waiting palm.

“You’re one to talk,” Connor snipes at him between mouthfuls, “I’m surprised Athens couldn’t locate us with your snoring to guide them.”

Hank sniffs, dainty and comical, “I don’t snore.”

Connor has to work hard not to smile, “Oh, you definitely do. I would know. Your mouth was right next to my ear.” Realizing what he just said, Connor’s mouth snaps shut and he suddenly becomes very preoccupied with retying his _caligae_. He can feel Hank’s eyes on him and he wishes he would speak his mind one way or the other. Instead, he whistles sharply for Sumo.

Connor does the same, but the grey Andalusian does little more than shake its thick mane in answer. Connor exhales sharply upward and a tendril of hair flops for his effort. Pushing up off his knees, he stomps over to the disobedient horse.

“Military horses are _useless_ outside of battle,” Connor grouses as he yanks and tugs the stubborn animal to the stream, encouraging it to drink.

Hank mounts Sumo, his expression smug, “That’s why you have to train them.” Connor has never seen Hank do anything in the way of training with Sumo outside of feeding the horse extra apples anytime he smacked someone in the face with his tail. Deciding it’s not worth debating, he mounts his own horse and they follow the stream as the sun inches higher into the sky.

Hank seems more at ease now that they’ve put a good distance between themselves and their camp, “Whoever came for us, they didn’t plan it very well. They didn’t have reinforcements or we would’ve found them by now.”

Connor makes a sound of agreement that morphs into a huff of frustration, “This…damn…horse!” Yanking on the reins several times, he turns it back onto the appropriate course. The horse, as Connor is swiftly learning, does not appear to like having its feet wet.

He hears Hank chuckle at his struggles and is on the verge of telling him off regardless of his superior rank when the large man suddenly raises a hand, “Did you hear that?” He hisses the question and Sumo goes stock still at the sound. Connor’s horse has no such instincts and collides its face into Sumo’s rear.

Hank joins Connor in cursing the mount, but blue eyes dart about in suspicion. He settles on a thick bush up ahead, pointing it out to Connor. He doesn’t see anything at first, but eventually he notices a telltale quivering. Something is hiding.

Hank’s hand is halfway to his bow when a fat quail bursts out of the bush straight into Sumo’s face. The horse rears in shock, sending Hank tumbling into the stream. Connor manages not to laugh, but he can’t quite help asking, “So tell me about that training again?”

Hank throws him a dirty look as he rises from his impromptu bath. Connor’s laughter fades into a noisy swallow when he takes in the way Hank’s tunic clings to his muscular thighs. The big man pays Connor little attention as he begins untying his armor.

“What are you doing?” Hank ignores him and tosses the armor onto the grassy bank. Connor moves to repeat the question, but it dies in a croak when Hank begins shucking off his clothes.

Slapping them wetly against a sun-warmed rock, he mutters darkly, “I’ll not ride a horse in wet clothes. I’d be chaffed for days.”

Stomping out of the water in only a loincloth, Connor can’t help staring at the exposed muscles contracting and expanding with the effort. Perhaps not as firm around the middle as he had once been, there is no denying Hank is still a soldier in his prime. Catching his look, Connor flushes and averts his eyes. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d seen Hank’s mouth twitch in a pleased smile before looking away.

Realizing they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, Connor ties his horse’s lead to a nearby branch. He does the same with Sumo since Hank only seems inclined to sulk at the moment.

Squatting down beside him in the grass, Connor tosses Hank the ration bag, “We might as well take advantage of the break and eat.” Hank mutters something approaching an agreement and digs around in the bag.

Pulling his hand out, Hank holds the tough jerky high in the air as if it is a delicacy, “Surprise, more salted meat.”

Connor laughs at Hank’s returning sense of humor but a small worry line creases his otherwise smooth forehead. Hank’s skin puckers with cold and the slight shiver doesn’t go unnoticed. He scoots closer to lean into Hank’s side, lending him what warmth he can.

He can almost hear Hank’s eyebrows take flight into his hairline, “What are you doing?”

Connor glances up at him and away again before he can lose his courage, “Returning the favor. For last night.”

Hank stands so abruptly that Connor has to throw out a hand to keep from falling. Crossing his arms, Hank chaffs at his biceps in an effort to warm himself.

“This is different,” Hank mutters.

Connor crosses his own arms but in irritation, “How? I was cold. Now you’re cold. How is it different?”

Hank waves a hand vaguely at Connor’s body but offers no explanation. Keeping his eyes carefully trained on the horses, Connor pushes his luck, “Why’d you do it then?”

“Fine, it’s the same thing,” Hank snaps, clearly trying to put an end to Connor’s line of questioning.

“Is it?” Connor asks and Hank’s mouth opens in irritation at Connor’s seemingly conflicting statements. Before he can take him to task, Connor says quietly, “You didn’t have to put your arm around me, I mean. So maybe you’re right. Maybe this is different.”

He meets Hank’s flustered gaze, willing him to either confirm or deny Connor’s suspicions. At least then, he’d know how Hank feels about him. He mentally curses North for lifting the wool that had been so effectively covering his eyes. It was easier when he didn’t understand his own feelings.

In the end, Hank gives him a non-answer, “You didn’t complain about it when you stopped shivering.”

Connor tilts his head and an unruly curl flops across his brow, “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Hank’s face softens even if it’s touched with sadness, “Connor…” Connor can see the rejection forming on Hank’s lips.

“Forget it,” Connor mumbles and he drapes his arms over his knees to support his sagging torso. He’d been stupid to hope, an absolute idiot for believing North. How could Hank possibly be attract—

Hank squatting down beside him in the grass halts the runaway train of his thoughts. The broad man leans against him without a word and Connor returns the silent pressure. He wills a thousand desires and wishes into the action, hoping that Hank understands his meaning.

All too soon, Hank’s clothes dry and they resume their search for the enemy holdout that assaulted their camp. Connor isn’t sure if not finding anything is lucky or unlucky. Hank’s ankle still has the mottled appearance of an abused green apple and he isn’t at all certain of his capabilities of defending Hank while also fighting off an attack. Still, it’s disconcerting to continue following a stream with no hint of other people. They should have come across the signs of a camp at least.

Even so, Connor can’t say he minds. The days are long and mostly quiet bordering on tense, but the nights make it worth the while. It’s a delicate dance and Connor always takes the first step. He rubs his arms beneath their shared blankets or forcibly chatters his teeth. Hank sighs, breath hot against Connor’s skin, before pulling him against his chest.

“Your southern blood wasn’t bred for cold weather,” Hank grumbles, but his arm tightens across Connor’s torso. Connor might’ve imagined the thumb reaching up to brush against his cheek, but his mind commits it to memory with a fierceness that conjures a detailed image anytime he thinks about it. It’s an unspoken agreement and Connor doesn’t comment on it for fear of breaking whatever spell descends upon them with the setting sun.

Guilt worms its way in by the third day.

“I’m starting to wonder if we aren’t following a cold trail. Maybe they turned and went the other way as a ruse?” Connor asks the question with a sinking heart. They’ll turn back, he’s sure of it.

Hank tugs Sumo to a stop and splashes noisily into the water, unbuckling his armor, “I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

Connor follows him with his eyes as Hank tugs his tunic over his head. A broad, well-muscled back comes into view, the tendons and tissue bunching as Hank pulls free from the garment. Draping it over a low-hanging tree branch, he wades deeper into the water before going stock-still. The view distracts Connor from his line of questioning most effectively.

Even so, after five minutes of motionless staring, Connor’s on the verge of asking Hank what he’s doing when his hand darts into the stream. Emerging victorious, a fish struggles wildly in his oversized grip. Mouth watering at the thought of fresh food, Connor’s quick to start a small fire. It’s the middle of the day and they haven’t seen a hint of another person since they struck out on foot. He feels it’s more than worth the risk.

Hank skewers the fish and rotates it slowly, his lips moving as he counts out minutes to ensure an even sear. Connor appreciates the attention to detail, but he can’t help but wonder if Hank is avoiding the conversation. His skin grows warm at the thought that Hank doesn’t want to turn back just yet either.

Pronouncing himself satisfied, Hank handles the cooked fish like a hot potato, trying to get enough of a grip on it to tear it to strips without burning his hands. In the end, they have singed tongues with full bellies—a first since they set out from camp. The ration bag hangs limp and sad on Sumo’s saddle; they weren’t meant to be gone for so long.

“We should turn back,” Connor gestures at the empty sack. “Unless you plan on playing the fisherman.”

“While you rest on your laurels, nibbling the fruits of my labor?” Hank points at the pile of bones by Connor’s side.

Connor snorts, “I’m living my best life. Fisherman, another trout!” Hank scoops a handful of water and slings it in Connor’s direction at the snobby directive. Connor tries to roll from it, but yelps when it makes contact with the small of his back through his tunic. Holding up his hands, he acquiesces with a grin. It falters when he sees a haunting sadness in Hank’s eyes. It’s only there for a moment before he locks it away. Connor wonders how often Hank looks at him like that when no one is looking.

Hank’s mood morphs to something abrasive and rough without explanation. He’s not rude or unkind, but all familiarity is gone. He isn’t the man Connor’s known for years. He’s the centurion, his superior, and all business.

“We’ll backtrack as far as we can tonight. You’re right. They didn’t come this way.” Connor doesn’t understand what caused the abrupt rift and he combs through everything he said and did up to Hank’s dour mood. Nothing stands out and Connor remains in the dark.

When night descends, Hank rolls to his side in the tent. When Connor dares to inch his back within a hair’s distance of Hank’s, the man grunts in irritation. Message received, Connor can’t fight the sinking feeling in his guts.

In the morning, Hank has another fish roasting over a small fire. Connor’s mouth doesn’t salivate for it this time. The dust of dread fills his stomach more thoroughly than any meal. He settles for the next to last leathery strip in the ration bag and a swig of _posca_. It’s stale and hot and it rests poorly among the unease in his belly.

The disquieting feeling must be contagious because Hank becomes restless to move on and responds sharply when Connor calls him by his name.

“Very well, _sir_,” Connor amends quietly. Hank’s expression remains unreadable as he watches Connor put out the flame from the fire and obscure the signs of their small camp.

He’s not resentful—he’s _not_—but the polarizing shift in behavior stings. He does his best not to sulk and the day stretches out into infinite minute after minute. The sun appears frozen in the sky and time does not seem to want to move out of this uncomfortable new reality. Eventually, Hank reins Sumo in and calls it for the day. Connor is the first to turn away when they lay down in the dark.

He’s almost asleep when he swears he hears the faintest whisper of, “I’m sorry.” When he mutters a sleepy _what?_ he gets no response in answer. Once again, the ground beside him is cold in the morning and Hank is preparing to push out for the day. Their rations are out and the stream did not appear interested in providing a meal.

With a hollow stomach, Connor swings up onto his borrowed mount. They set off in silence and it’s heavier than the day before. He wants to shout at Hank, but it would be a stupid thing to do. Unbecoming of a legionary and a subordinate. He doesn’t doubt his back would taste the bite of Hank’s lash for such an infraction so he keeps his mouth shut and grinds his teeth until his jaw aches.

Hank stops short for the day and Connor briefly considers questioning his judgment. They could make camp by nightfall if they pushed the horses. Something in Hank’s silence shifts from hard and unyielding to quietly sad. Connor frowns in irritation; Hank has no right and Connor doesn’t spare him any further attention.

Mucking in the shoreline, he finds what he’s looking for. Fresh onions pull free with a squelch. Slender green stems protrude from their modest bulbs. Their breath and sweat will stink of it for days, but starving men aren’t often picky. Gathering as many as he can comfortably carry in a fist, he trudges back to their tent. He thrusts out a handful in silence and Hank gives him a quiet, “Thanks,” for his efforts. He’d never been so uneasy with the man nor had he ever seen Hank this taciturn and unpredictable with his moods.

As he expected, the tent fills with the oniony smell of their breath and, in Connor’s opinion, Hank’s flatulence. Once more on his side, he stares out of the flap at the night sky. He tracks the constellations with his eyes and tries not to think of the man lying quietly beside him. He knows Hank is still awake; he can tell by his breathing.

Hank exhales a pungent sigh and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Connor feels the shift and flex of Hank’s arm against his back and he hates himself for how badly he wishes the touch was intentional.

He’s up and out of the tent before he realizes his body is in motion. His skin erupts in a rolling wave of cold-kissed flesh but he doesn’t stop until his naked toes skim the frigid edge of the stream. Chilly blades of grass protest under his feet as he squats down to rip and tear at the remaining onions that dot the bank.

“Connor,” Hank’s voice calls to him, soft and gentle as if they haven’t been giving each other the silent treatment for days.

“Don’t,” is his harsh response. He’s pulling grass now, but he doesn’t care. He can’t lie there and pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not. Something broke and shattered between them and the loose pieces of it threaten to bleed him to death.

Hank’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and Connor violently dips out from beneath it. Rougher this time, Hank’s hand reaches beneath his armpits, hauling him to his feet. He’d lash out at him, superior officer or no, if he wasn’t so impossibly close. Connor’s heart thunders with the tightly lidded rage and confusion that’ve plagued him the past few days.

Hank’s forehead comes to rest against his, shocking Connor into statuesque stillness. His hands grip at Connor’s biceps and he appears to be holding onto Connor more than embracing him. As if he’s afraid Connor will disappear when he opens his eyes. Outside the tent, their breath comes out in cloudy puffs as summer fades more surely into fall.

Connor can taste the onion on Hank’s breath. He’s near enough to kiss him. He wouldn’t even have to move; he could just purse his lips and—

“I’m to marry before the year’s end,” the words tumble from Hank’s lips like poison straight into Connor’s mouth. He breathes them in deeply, staggering away from Hank as the words lodge into the available spaces in his lungs.

He hears Hank speaking useless words.

_…I wanted to tell you in private._

_…waiting for the right moment._

_…you’re important to me._

Connor rips his gaze from Hank’s knee to the man’s tense face. Apprehension hides behind the set of his jaw.

“Why did you touch me?” Of all the responses Connor could have given, Hank hadn’t expected that one. His hands rise into the air cupped, useless and empty.

Connor presses him, unyielding in his hurt, “Why did you _hold_ me if…if you knew…” Connor doesn’t have the words to capture the depth of Hank’s betrayal.

_You held me in your arms! _ His mind screams into the silent space between them. It doesn’t matter that Hank had never said the words or that Connor hadn’t found the mettle to speak them himself; he knew their nightly embraces hadn’t been for warmth.

When he finds his voice again, it’s raw and torn like some bloodied thing dragged behind a cart, “You made me think…You let me _believe_—” His voice cracks under pressure and he does his best to keep breathing.

_Pull the air in_, he tells himself, _don’t give him any tears_.

Connor can see Hank summoning his strength and it locks into place over his face like a shield. Unbreakable, stoic, and unfeeling, “I didn’t mean to give you any ideas.” Connor sneers at the words and Hank’s expression is the warning of a soldier that outranks him.

“I wanted you to be the first to know. I would like you to be there.” Connor stares at him, all expression gone from his face.

He turns on his heel in answer and Hank yields an almost imperceptible fraction, “I _need_ you to be there.” He can hear it in Hank’s tone. The desire, the confusion, the impossibility of what could exist between them.

Connor stops and his shoulders hunch protectively around his ears, “I will do what is expected of a soldier in your guard.” He can feel the tremor of misery that swells like a current through Hank’s body at his response. Connor will stay but only because duty dictates it as so.

The ride back to camp is silent and the remaining months before they return home pass in a blur of skirmishes and lesser battles. They never located their ambushers, but they defeated more than enough enemy soldiers to make up for it. With their ravaged numbers, all the soldiers know Athens won’t fight during the harsher months of winter. Everyone can take a much-needed break from the bloodshed.

Rumors fly fast and thick, taking Connor by surprise. North had told him of the stories people whispered about Hank, but he’d never been privy to them. With the obvious cooling of their friendship, he was included on the jokes. He wishes it wasn’t the case. Even badly wounded, the impulse to defend Hank remains strong.

He also learns that the marriage wasn’t Hank’s idea and that he had strongly objected. Connor overhears an explosive fight between Hank and another centurion over the matter. In the end, the wedding is still on and both men are worse for the wear.

Returning home is better than he expects in some ways and worse in others. He’d nearly forgotten Ben, holding down the villa with both Connor and Hank away for so long. Ben’s embrace is a comforting balm he didn’t know he needed. He must cling for too long because Ben pats his back before giving him a searching gaze.

Being back in the overwhelming large home leaves him plenty of space to avoid Hank, but there are only the three of them. It becomes painfully obvious who Connor is dodging. He overhears Ben hissing at Hank behind the kitchen door, “So help me, Henrik. I told you! I warned you! Look at him; he’s destroyed. What. Did. You. Do?”

Hank doesn’t answer and Connor isn’t prepared for him to come barreling into the kitchen. He barely avoids the door before Hank collides into him.

“I haven’t time for this,” he mutters, untangling himself from Connor.

The ugly gash Hank rent through Connor’s chest remains ragged and unhewn, but he stops hiding in his rooms during meals. Life has to go on; it _has_ to. If he can’t have Hank as his own, he can at least have him in his life. The best he hopes for is that the sharp pulse of pain will lessen anytime he looks at him.

Things are almost back to normal when the lady arrives. She has more baggage than Connor dreamed possible and she’s heavily perfumed. Her clothes are gauzy and billow in pastel waves on the wind. She’s clearly from farther north; her coloring is much like Hank’s. _How perfect_, Connor thinks darkly. 

She’s not unpleasant, but it’s clear she doesn’t think much of Hank or his villa.

“Father’s was larger,” is her only comment on her new home before she begins ordering servants around as if she’s lived in the house for years. She isn’t unkind, but she bears the obvious signs of someone who has never known what it’s like to _want_ in her entire life.

Connor learns the truth of the situation from the cook. He likes to linger in the kitchens as the large man prepares extravagant meals for Hank’s soon to be bride out of remarkably few ingredients. Connor prefers the cook’s company to hers by far.

“She’ll catch with child soon enough if these spices do their job,” Connor gives him a skeptical look. The cook was known for his peculiar beliefs regarding food and herbs, but he was also particularly adept at banishing minor illnesses with the power of his soup alone. Connor gave him a modicum of leeway in this regard.

“Is that important?” He asks, not particularly interested in the lady or her undercarriage. He picks at the crumbling mortar between the slabs of stones that make up the interior walls.

“Well, yes,” the cook says to him, his eyebrows arched like seagulls’ wings. “Henrik needs an heir. It’s been a matter of contention for some time. Politics, you know?” When he notices Connor’s picking, he shakes a rag at him and shoos him from the kitchen.

Several things slot into place in Connor’s mind as he mulls over the conversation. Why hadn’t Hank just _told_ him? True, it would still hurt. Yes, he would still be shattered. But needing an heir is different from outright rejection.

A bitter voice whispers at the back of Connor’s mind, _unless he doesn’t want you._

Connor avoids the lady as best he can, which isn’t hard given that she doesn’t care much for soldiers. He overhears her complaining of the stench of sweat, dust, and horses. He notes with vindictive glee that Hank begins spending more time with Sumo than ever before. He knows this is no love match; still, he enjoys the small but distinct signs of fission that already exist between Hank and his bride.

In some ways, Connor’s glad for her presence. It does wonders to repair the rift between him and Hank. Hank seeks out his company at night, which has the effect of ensuring the lady will withdraw to her rooms. They mostly discuss the state of the war and their frustrations with the apparent stalemate.

One night, Hank returns from a dinner with his fellow centurions clearly intoxicated. Connor can hear Ben chastising him and runs interference, “I’ll take him.”

Ben offers his thanks on behalf of his weak leg, “This damn thing. Always aches ever since I took an arrow to the knee in the last war.” He curses Athens, spitting on the ground. Hank joins him, spitting on his foot. Ben grimaces and Connor suppresses a laugh.

A door opens down the hall and Ben make a frantic shooing gesture, “Get him to bed before his bride finds out. She detests drinking.”

Hank still has enough of his senses to walk even if he weaves slightly. He leans heavily on Connor regardless.

“I don’t love her, you know,” Hank mumbles as Connor shoulders open the door to Hank’s private chambers. It’s made of sturdier stuff than most of the main interior doors and he has to lean their combined weight against it to make it budge.

“I know,” Connor says quietly, not wanting to discuss it. He doesn’t want to disturb the fragile peace between them. He doesn’t want to think about how much he misses Hank’s body pressed against his.

“Wanted you to know,” Hank insists, leaning into Connor’s space. He can smell the wine on his breath and Connor closes his eyes when Hank pats his cheek clumsily.

Summoning his willpower, Connor maneuver’s Hank into the room, “Let’s get you to bed.”

Hank barks out a bitter laugh and mumbles something that sounds a great deal like _if only_. He flops face-first onto a bed much grander than Connor’s modest furnishings. When he emits a thunderous snore seconds later, Connor backs out of the room, his feet making no sound on the plush rugs.

“I can’t do this,” he whispers into the air between him and the door. It’s only a few inches but it might as well be a mountain for as insurmountable as it is.

“Can’t do what?” A pleasant voice calls quietly from behind him. He whirls around to see the woman Hank is to wed in less than a week’s time.

“Good evening, my lady. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He tries to rush past her, wanting to avoid a conversation.

“Connor.” He isn’t sure how she knows his name, but it wouldn’t have been hard for her to find out. He turns, not sure what she could possibly have to say to him.

She looks at him directly and without guile, “I don’t have to be your enemy.”

Connor’s guard raises immediately, sensing a verbal attack, “We are not rivals, my lady. We are not anything.”

He tries to bid her farewell again, but she stops him with words that freeze his veins, “Love may be blind, but I’m not.”

“I’m not sure I follow your meaning,” he says, cautiously measuring his words.

She steps closer, her arms crossed protective and tight across her chest, “I think that you do.”

When Connor doesn’t make a move to speak, she presses on, “I don’t pretend to hold any great affection for Henrik, but you…I can see your heart in your eyes.”

Not liking at all where the conversation is headed, Connor severs it, “Is there something I can help you with, my lady?”

She gives him a small, pained smile that mirrors the melancholy lurking in the corners of Connor’s heart, “No. I don’t think you can.”

He departs with a bow, but her words haunt him, chasing away the possibility of sleep. In the end, he concludes she is as inescapably trapped as he is for entirely different reasons. He does not like her, he doubts he will ever like her, but he understands her a little better. How would he feel in her position? Powerless and engaged to a man more interested in his horse than his bride.

Nothing about this situation has ever been simple, but it was easier when he could hate her in private. Now, he can’t even mollify his injured heart with mean thoughts about the girl. She’s North’s age, as far as he can tell. His age. A bit old compared to most Roman brides, but they do things differently in her home country.

A horrible coldness grips him when Hank is fitted for his marriage clothes. Connor and the other men Hank hand-selected will flank them as they wed. It becomes too real. He had no illusions, he’d known the day would come, but it arrived with frightening speed.

He’s managed to keep himself in check around Hank for several weeks. As far as he can tell, Hank believes Connor’s ruse that he’s no longer hurt—that they can be friends without suffering for it. Dressing for the ceremony, he feels a small part of him fracture with each piece of soldier’s regalia he dons. When he takes his place in the row of legionaries, he wonders how it’s possible he’s still upright when every part of him feels broken.

He stands mutely, numbly as the ceremony starts. Hank has his back to him, waiting stoically for his bride to reach him. Each step she takes drives a new splinter through his heart. She’s heavily cloaked in a sunset-colored veil and dressed in white. Even at this distance, Connor can see the knot of Hercules fashioned around her waist; he barely suppresses a tremor when he thinks of Hank untying it later in private. Connor can’t be certain, but he thinks he hears her muffled weeping.

_There’s still time_, Connor thinks without much conviction, _Hank could change his mind. He does not love her; he said so himself_.

He thinks it, but the words ring with false hope. Connor isn’t a boy anymore and such childish dreams don’t hold weight. He knows it doesn’t matter that this marriage isn’t a love match. It’s to whelp Hank an heir, nothing more. Hank’s bride has no illusions of affection either. She already has personal rooms far from their marriage bed. As soon as she is with child, she will retire to them once more.

Connor’s hearing goes out when she reaches Hank’s side, and it’s replaced with a high-pitched whine like a swarm of mosquitos. He’s dimly aware of a priest speaking their names: _Henrik_, _Flavia_. It’s a fitting name for the golden-haired woman. His heart stops and he forgets to breathe when Hank slips a gold band on her finger.

The other legionaries look straight-ahead, as they should, but Connor can’t help his staring. He knew Hank could never be his; it does nothing to diminish the ache of seeing him hand in hand with another. With all eyes on the bride, no one sees the naked agony of his gaze.

At the dinner party that follows, he drinks as he should without getting drunk and accepts trays of grapes and cheeses. He dips his finger in the washbowls servants bring before partaking in meats more precious than the jeweled stones intertwined with the flowers in the bride’s hair. It tastes of ash in his mouth, and the wine sours when he washes the food down with it.

He takes his leave at the appropriate hour; Hank mustn’t know, mustn’t suspect. He smiles even if it feels nailed into place. Hank is deep enough in his cups not to notice and his bride hasn’t shown any interest in what’s going on around her since she took her place at Hank’s side. If Connor’s heart could spare her a thought, he would think she looks miserable. Hank waves him off and Connor departs at a casual speed.

Once beyond the perimeter of the party, he increases his stride. His feet guide him to his old training grounds without thinking. He hasn’t sparred here in years, but his muscles remember. Swerving to one side, he scoops up a waiting practice sword without stopping. By the time the sun rises, he’s hacked the wooden dummy down to a stump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor’s twenty-first birthday comes and goes without much fanfare. The soldiers in his new century don’t know him well enough to be aware of it. Hank is still in the same cohort, but he’s one of nearly five hundred now instead of eighty. Part of him misses the comforts of Hank’s house. A lot more of him than he cares to admit misses the man himself, but it’s Ben he’s thinking of as he laces his caligae. 
> 
> “You requested this. Stop your sniveling,” he mutters to himself. In the end, it had been too much to remain in his old rooms. He was too close to Hank’s quarters and he’d grown to dread the hours following dinner. It was the same routine. Hank would disappear to the baths and Lady Flavia would slip into his chambers. Connor could hear them. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop. It made it worse and he felt filthy and horrid every time.  
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> 
> Things may seem bleak, but it's always darkest before the dawn. Stick with me for that eventual happy ending <3

**Principales: ** Junior officers in the roman army.   
**Corona aurea** : an award usually given to centurions, but principales (lesser officers) could receive it as well. They earned it by killing an enemy in single combat and holding the ground to the end of the battle.  
****Missio causaria**: **This is a bit of a spoiler if I define it here. It should become clear in the text what it means when you encounter it :)  
**Dulcissimus mel**: Sweetest honey (terms of endearment)

Connor’s twenty-first birthday comes and goes without much fanfare. The soldiers in his new century don’t know him well enough to be aware of it. Hank is still in the same _cohort_, but he’s one of nearly five hundred now instead of eighty. Part of him misses the comforts of Hank’s house. A lot more of him than he cares to admit misses the man himself, but it’s Ben he’s thinking of as he laces his _caligae_.

“You requested this. Stop your sniveling,” he mutters to himself. In the end, it had been too much to remain in his old rooms. He was too close to Hank’s quarters and he’d grown to dread the hours following dinner. It was the same routine. Hank would disappear to the baths and Lady Flavia would slip into his chambers. Connor could hear them. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop. It made it worse and he felt filthy and horrid every time.

Still, he couldn’t seem to stop. A vindictive thrill would pass through him during her monthly reprieve from Hank’s bed. She wasn’t catching with child. It was a mean thing to hope, but he wondered if Hank would reject Flavia if she couldn’t produce an heir.

Shame would always come crashing down on his shoulders like a vindictive tsunami after those thoughts. This wasn’t Flavia’s fault. He hadn’t sought her out or spoken to her since their impromptu meeting in the hall, but he could see clear as day that she was lonely. She brightened a bit when she went on her daily walks through the gardens. Connor could see her from his window; it was the only time she smiled.

Connor knew the first time she fled from the table to wretch wetly in the hall that she was with child. Hank wouldn’t believe it until a midwife confirmed what everyone else in the house already guessed. Hank had smiled at his wife, truly pleased. Connor had requested the change in companies the next morning.

Hank would grow to love her because she would give him a child. Connor couldn’t see how he fit into Hank’s new life so he began to slowly excise himself from it as if he were a delicate cancer. If Hank noticed, he made no mention of it. Connor had requested discreetness and to transfer to a centurion Hank respected. To all outward peering eyes, nothing was amiss. Squads shifted all the time for a variety of reasons.

Hank spent more time at home than in the field these days regardless. Tracking the moons, Connor knew Flavia was approaching the end of her pregnancy. If Hank’s frequent trips home and his drawn visage were anything to go by, Connor guessed the pregnancy was a challenging one. He’d written to Ben about it once and received a curt response that was more a verbal boxing of his ears than any real answer. Connor hadn’t said goodbye before departing to join his new squad and Ben clearly had feelings on the matter—mostly angry ones.

Even with Ben mad at him, Connor wishes Ben were here now. Ben would have made him a small cake to mark the day. It was a strange thing to be another year older without anyone remarking on it. It almost felt as if it wouldn’t be real until someone said the words out loud.

His brutal training schedule pushes it from his mind. His new commanding officer wasn’t as forthcoming with Connor as Hank had been—he’d expected that much—but it still bothered him to be kept in the dark. He wanted to know what was happening with the war and if Athens was pushing for an early return to the fight. Snow still coated the frozen ground, but new shoots pushed through as a harbinger of spring. It was earlier than expected but not so early that the soldiers couldn’t march.

The order comes before Flavia’s given birth and Connor knows Hank will stay behind. He’s surprised when Hank seeks him out for a private conversation. They hadn’t spoken in months due to Hank’s frequent travels and Connor’s nightmarish schedule.

“I won’t be going with you this time,” Hank murmurs and Connor can read intense anxiety in his expression. A small burst of warmth pulses through him when he realizes Hank is worried for him.

He quickly crushes it, refusing to give root to impossible dreams, “I’ll be fine, Hank. My squad is among the most elite and my leadership is excellent.”

Hank nods, but his attention is clearly elsewhere, “Listen. You have to come home. For Benny.” Connor stiffens then relaxes in realization. Of course, he will say goodbye to Ben.

“You could ride back with me?” Hank extends the offer, but Connor shakes his head.

“I have to pass it by my commander first and there’re preparations to make with my squad. I’ll drop by before I go.” Connor sees something grow dim in Hank’s eyes. Nothing he’d said was a lie, but Hank had sussed out the rejection. Connor resists a hunch in his shoulders before saying quickly, “Give my best to Flavia. Gods willing, the birth will be an easy one.”

Hank seizes the olive branch and claps Connor on the back, “Thanks. I will.” Connor hates how warm Hank’s hand is and despises how badly he wants to lean into the fingers that barely brush the nape of his neck.

He pulls away in favor of clasping forearms in farewell. He turns, refusing to watch Hank leave.

“You wanted this,” he mutters quietly under his breath, reminding himself that this exact ache is why he needs to stay gone.

His resolve cracks when he walks over the threshold of Hank’s house the following day. It would always feel like home, no matter how long he’s been away from it. He could walk its walls blindfolded. Connor finds Ben in his old room, staring at his bed.

“It looks so different to me now,” Connor says into the quiet space between them.

Ben sighs and doesn’t turn to look at him, “I’ve been out of the fight for too long. I never feared for Henrik or myself when we went off to war.” Connor can hear the tension in Ben’s voice and he wishes he knew what to say. He settles on apologizing.

“I’m sorry I left the way I did. I couldn’t…It’s complicated.”

He rests his hand on Ben’s shoulder and Ben reaches up to pat it, “I know, Connor.” Connor goes rigid at Ben’s tone and tries to withdraw. Ben’s grip tightens around his hand.

“It’s hard,” Ben begins, his tone very careful and lacking judgment, “to share the ones we love.” Hank’s name hovers unspoken and Connor feels a horrifying sting behind his eyes. He can’t—won’t—cry in front of Ben. Not over Hank.

Ben’s dry palm reaches up to pat Connor’s cheek, “You aren’t the only one hurting. Talk to him.”

Connor sucks in a frustrated, shuddering breath, “There’s nothing to discuss.” Connor isn’t certain how much Ben understands and he can’t afford to tip his hand if he’s wrong.

“Connor,” Ben attempts to sound stern, but it always came across as woefully constipated to Connor. He feels the tug of a smile at his lips for the first time in months. “You’re going to _war_. This is—you…”

Ben fades off in irritation, obviously trying to find the right words, “Henrik won’t be there this time. It’s going to eat him alive with worry. Not everybody comes back whole.” He glances down at his own ruined leg with a grimace.

“Ben, that’s—” Connor isn’t sure what he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t want Ben fretting himself to death. Connor’s more than capable.

Ben’s voice cuts across his, “Not everyone gets to go home, Connor.”

It’s a heavy thought and it sits poorly in his guts. Connor knows the risks—he isn’t stupid—but he doesn’t sit and stew over his own mortality either; not since those first few weeks of battle over a year ago when he’d shed the last vestiges of innocence. He’d never given thought to how it would affect Ben or Hank if he came back from war injured or worse.

“I’ll _try_ to talk to him,” Connor says at last and Ben gives him a weak smile that clashes with his sad eyes.

He finds Hank in the great room by one of the villa’s many fireplaces. He’s staring at the unlit logs and doesn’t move when Connor approaches. He can feel the wall of tension between them grow taller with each step he takes.

“How is Flavia?” Connor blurts out, not knowing where to begin.

“She won’t be joining us if that’s your worry.” Hank’s simple words belie his sharp tone.

Connor folds his arms in a petulant but protective manner, “That wasn’t why I was ask—”

Hank waves a dismissive hand at him, still glaring into the fireplace, “Did you speak with Ben?”

“I did,” he begins, trying to find a way to start an impossible conversation.

“Good,” Hank says quietly and his shoulders sag under the weight of the single syllable. “You’ll need to depart before dark if you’re to make it back in time.”

Connor can hear the dismissal in his words. He doesn’t understand why Hank is so angry. He was the one who pushed Connor away. He was the one who got married. He was…

_Hurting_, Ben’s voice echoes back to him.

Connor knew what it felt like to ache without relief. He knows there are forces at play that not even Hank can control. There are laws that forbid it and, with a baby on the way, Hank has even more to lose than before.

He doesn’t know if there are any words that can heal the rift between them, but he does know he can’t leave yet. This can’t be how they part. As angry as he is with Hank, as much as his rejection will hurt, he doesn’t want this to be the last memory Hank has of him should he fall in battle.

He can’t go without saying it out loud at least once, “Hank. There’s something I need to—”

Hank raises a hand, halting his words more effectively than the walls surrounding the city keep out enemy soldiers, “I can’t give you what you need, Connor. Don’t ask it of me.”

Connor’s ears ring as his forehead grows hot with shame. He steps back, away from Hank and his refusal to let him speak. Anger follows swiftly, climbing up the heels of his shock to nestle deep in his heart, “I don’t want _anything_ from you.” It comes out hard and loud, bordering on shouting. The lines of Hank’s face deepen, making him look older than his years. Connor’s never raised his voice to him before and the broad man is clearly unimpressed.

Before Hank can take him to task, Connor adds quietly, “Not anymore.” Squaring his shoulders and meeting Hank’s gaze, he sees several emotions warring behind deep blue eyes. Sadness, regret, and something else that would have once given Connor hope. Now, it just hurts.

A horn sounds in the courtyard and Connor knows he has to take his leave. He’d returned home with a small company of men from the area also saying their goodbyes. His last minutes with Hank have drained to the bottom of the hourglass. He closes his eyes in a heavy, steadying blink, “Thank you for the opportunities you’ve afforded me, Henrik. I don’t expect that I’ll have much time to write. Farewell.”

Hank’s shoulders hunch at Connor’s use of his given name. Connor hasn’t called him Henrik since meeting him and it twists in his guts like the knife it was meant to be.

Connor turns on his heel and marches from the hall. He doesn’t look back and Hank doesn’t stop him.

It’s easy not to think of Hank once he’s in the thick of battle again. As predicted, Athens pushes for an early return to the fight. He nearly loses an eye when his horse’s hoof sticks in the mud mid-battle, but he managed to lean far back across its rear. The soldier bearing down on him nicked his eyebrow, but not the delicate orb beneath it. It bled horribly and scarred worse, but his fellow legionaries insisted it made him look ferocious.

Two months pass without a single thought of Hank when the letter arrives. Flavia had the child—a son named Nickolaj, Kol for short. It’s a sterile letter, but Connor stares at every word. Homesickness held at bay by war lurches through him, forcing him into a sit.

Someone touches his shoulder—Daniel or Simon? He can’t be sure which with the helmet, “Bad news?”

Connor shakes his head, trying to pull meaning from a common valediction.

_Valere te opto, Connor_. _I hope that you are well._

It’s a distraction he doesn’t need right now. His still healing eyebrow aches from his forehead scrunching and he smooths away all expression. He checks each night that the letter is still there, but he doesn’t read it again. He knows he should burn it, but it’s the only thing he has of Hank.

As an anxious teen ready to play at being a soldier, he hadn’t understood why Hank could only write once every few months or so. As a battle-tested legionary, he’s surprised to find how quickly time passes when at war. Days blur into months of bloodshed with no clear victory in sight. He writes once to Ben the first year he’s gone, a wandering aimless letter devoid of any meaningful details. He can’t get his brain to wrap around the pen, but it’s better than silence. He doesn’t want Ben to worry.

He’s better about it the second year and even remembers Ben’s birthday midway through his third year of unrelenting war. The only personal news he has of note is his promotion to the rank of _principales_. He ignores the impulse to write to Hank about it. It wouldn’t change anything.

Ben writes to him a great deal, but the letters often don’t reach him until weeks or even months later and sometimes out of order. The information within is woefully out of date, but the glimpses of life are more encouraging than their crawl to the enemy’s border. Real change is happening in the villages and farmers can work their fields without fear of enemy raids for the first time in years.

He earns a _corona aurea_ just shy of his twenty-fourth birthday. It’s usually reserved for centurions, but junior officers can receive it under extraordinary circumstances. Every time he sees the golden crown, his stomach clenches with unease. Simon does his best not to stare at it anytime he speaks to Connor, but it’s hard to avoid the visual reminder that the enemy had crippled his brother.

The attack had come by surprise well before dawn. Daniel’s shriek of pain had woken the entire camp and Connor stumbled out of his tent in sleep-addled confusion. Connor had seen so much death over the years he’d thought himself immune to the revulsions of war. Seeing Daniel’s foot severed from his leg had proved him wrong.

He roused from his horrified staring when Simon shrieked his enraged battle cry. Without the watch fire, Connor had to rely on the moonlight to guide him. He wasn’t sure if he should consider it a lucky thing that the men were still dressed in their white tunics, easily distinguishing them from the heavily armored enemy.

The soldier who’d struck Daniel in his sleep was attempting to finish the job. Simon struggled against a sea of soldiers to reach him, but Connor knew he’d never make it in time. Barefoot and swordless, Connor charged the man from behind, tackling him around the waist.

Shocked by the sudden attack, the man recovered quickly enough. Once back on his feet, he’d bared his teeth at Connor and they’d gleamed scarlet slick in the dim lighting. He looked more demonic than human, but the fear Connor expected never came.

Connor knew Daniel was in shock; it was the only reason he’d stopped screaming, but he was losing an alarming amount of blood. It spread like a viscous lake around the ruined stump of his leg. Catching Connor’s gaze, the man had spat wetly then grinned, “I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to hack this one to pieces.”

Revulsion and anger battled for purchase in his mind, but adrenaline drove him forward before he had time to think. He swerved to the side to grab at a smoldering stick from the distinguished watch fire before lunging forward. No matter how well armored, a burning stick to the eye will take any man to his knees. The enemy soldier shrank away from Connor with a shriek and Connor snatched at his fallen sword.

It didn’t take long from there to dispatch the man. The sounds of battle continued to ring out around him, but Connor’s focus remained with Daniel. For as long as he lived, he’s certain he will always remember Simon’s haunted face trying and failing to reach his brother. Using the lacings from Daniel’s _caliga_, he applied pressure as best he could to the wounded leg. By the time he’d finished, most of the fighting had shifted further into the woods as their ambushers attempted to fade into the trees. 

Simon had thanked him and meant it. Without Connor, his brother would have most certainly died a gruesome death. Still, Connor doubts Simon enjoys the visual token of what he’d lost pinned to Connor’s chest. Daniel had been carted home shortly after the skirmish and Simon spent most of his days in a fog.

Morale and conduct begin to degrade as the war slogs into its fourth year. Despite the frequent speeches from the centurions that the war effort is going well and that victory is in sight, it’s hard to believe it as they tramp through muddy valleys with nothing but salted meat, _posca_, and whatever plants they can uproot from boggy marshes to keep them going.

Even with the centurions’ insistence, Connor’s unprepared for the armistice. Their battles felt like bloody stalemates, costing them more lives than he thought possible. Apparently, Athens had fewer troops to spare. He overhears a visiting centurion muttering to his own command. His excited tone catches Connor’s attention; there will be a surrender within a fortnight.

He withdraws to a campfire to warm himself. Fall came faster than Connor expected this far north. Even so, he knows it isn’t the chill night air making his hands shake. With an end to the fight, he’ll have to return to—where? Would he be welcome in his old home? Would he even want to stay there?

Someone squats down beside him, shouldering him roughly. His unease twists into rage; he’s prepared to lash out at the person until a braided rope of long coppery hair catches him in the face.

“Hi,” North’s mouth tilts into a slanted grin at his shock.

“What are you doing here?” he considers pinching himself, wondering if he’s dreamed up the entire ceasefire as well as her baffling presence. Even with the war coming to a close, ambush remains an all too real threat to have civilians wandering around.

“Nice to see you too,” she deadpans before tossing her head in the direction of the centurions’ tent. “I came with father. The war is ending. Finally.” She says the last word like it has a bitter taste.

“So you’ve managed to escape marriage, yeah?” He meant it as a joke, but he can tell immediately that it was the wrong thing to say.

Her eyes cloud over and she looks horrifyingly blank, “It’s being arranged. This is my last trip with father.” Connor tries to apologize, quietly, but the longer he talks, the more she seems to deflate.

“How long has it been?” He asks eventually, trying to push away the awkward tension that he’d so brilliantly created between them.

The memories of their fledgling adult years bring a small smile to her lips, “You were twenty.”

A ghost of a conversation sweeps over his mind like a rag through a layer of dust, “Not for another three months, if I’m recalling correctly.”

That earns him a true laugh and he’s startled to realize he hasn’t heard the sound since marching off to war. He suspects it’s difficult to laugh when one’s throat is choked with the scent of blood and burning hair.

He shakes off the dark reverie, “Four years then. A little more.” He knows his birthday came and went as summer reached its peak. It wasn’t something the men stopped to take stock of while keeping track of who still lived, who was gone, and whose families needed to be notified of their sacrifice. The fresh memory of Daniel’s maimed limb kept any celebratory mood at bay as well.

“I’ve lost you again,” North says quietly and Connor can’t keep the haunted look from his face.

“Bad memory is all,” he tries to brush it off, but he knows North won’t let it rest. Even as the world shifts around them, some things will always remain the same.

“You’re allowed to grieve the losses, you know,” her hand finds his back and he’s struck with déjà vu. He hasn’t thought of Hank in months. His nightly touch to the letter he carried against his breast had become a habit of comfort. Still, he didn’t give it any more thought than he did to donning his helmet. But this touch was familiar. He can feel the slap of a heavy palm come to rest between his shoulder blades. He remembers what it felt like to have Hank’s fingertips graze the skin of his neck.

Connor rubs viciously at his eyes, “I know. It’s not something I can afford right now, but I will. Soon enough.”

Her eyes cut across to the tent Connor now knows holds his commanding officer and North’s father, “He caught me at it this spring, you know. Sword practice.”

“Oh, shi—what happened?” Connor knew they’d taken a horrible risk to train her, but they’d been young and filled with the arrogant confidence of youth. Without Connor there to pretend it was all a romantic ruse, he’s surprised North is here at all.

“I claimed I missed you. It’s why I’m here. I’m surprised he believed me. Then again, father never took the time to learn much about me.” He can tell she’s trying to keep the bitterness from her tone and he doesn’t prod that wound.

Instead, he presses his shoulder against hers, “I missed you, too.” They may never work in a romantic sense, but North had become one of his most trusted friends without him realizing. He regrets not writing to her.

“Gods above, you’re worse than Henrik,” she taps him on the temple, careful to avoid his scar. “Do you live in here now?” He tries not to react to North mentioning Hank in casual conversation and fails spectacularly. She reaches out to cup his cheek, “Still?”

“Apparently,” is his bitter reply. He’d spent years trying to eradicate the hurt, to hack away at his love until nothing remained but Connor and war. This first bit of kind touch since leaving had unraveled his efforts with frightening speed.

“Have you seen him?” If he’s going to acknowledge this unhealed wound, he may as well get it out of the way all at once.

North nods, “He’s met with father several times. He was away for a couple of years fighting. I thought maybe you’d run into each other.” Connor shakes his head. He’s almost certain Hank orchestrated it to avoid him. He had enough authority to dictate which troops he led. It wouldn’t have been hard.

“He’s back home now,” she says cautiously. He can tell she’s debating whether to continue this line of conversation and Connor’s no less certain how he wants her to proceed.

North exhales heavily, “His wife, Flavia?” She pauses, judging Connor’s reaction. Seeing no reproach, she continues, “She’s gone.”

Connor startles so badly at the information that he nearly knocks North over, “What do you mean _gone_?” Ben’s letters hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort.

“It’s pretty recent,” she offers with a placating gesture. “Their son is frail—always has been from what I can tell. Flavia insisted it’s the weather here. She and Henrik are both from northern climes. She’s taken the child to her family home.”

Connor’s brain refuses to absorb the information as his heart thunders wildly in his chest. He feels panicky and itches to do something.

“Walk with me?” He asks as he stands and extends a hand to North. She swats it away, rising under her own steam.

“There’s something else you need to know,” the words come out slow and measured. She links her arm with his and remains silent until they reach the outer edge of the camp.

“You’re being rather ominous,” Connor shoulder checks her gently, but her mouth remains in a thin, grim line.

“I asked him not to say anything. I’m still hoping he won’t.” Connor knows with certainty she’s talking about her father. He’s rarely had reason to see the man or interact with him. He led in a different cohort.

“Why would he wish to speak to me?” Connor glances at her face, but her features settle into a strange blank mask.

“He thinks I wanted to come here to run away with you. I had to convince him I just wanted to say goodbye.” Connor can tell she’s choosing her words carefully and he struggles to parse out the possible options.

“Guess we had him fooled then,” he looks for a reaction, but she only makes an agreeable humming sound. While her expression doesn’t offer any clues, a suspicion begins to grow when he takes in her appearance.

North had never been of a mind to dress like the other girls. With her hair tightly plaited, she looked more like a servant than she did a centurion’s daughter. The dramatic stole draped across her torso, though, was unusual for her. Stooping down under the guise of retying his _caliga_, he brushes against her side and hears a telltale clink.

Rising, Connor links arms with her again, gripping her tightly to his side, “You brought it _here_?” The question comes out a hissed whisper. She tries to pull away, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold.

“Are you actually insane?” He keeps his voice low as he brings his head closer to hers.

“I have a plan,” she whispers back, stung. “I really did come to say goodbye, Connor. I’d rather die than marry that man.” Meeting her miserable gaze, Connor’s tossed into his past once more with an unsteadying lurch. Looking at North’s face, he knows where he’s seen this despondent expression before. Flavia, at her own wedding party.

“Let me help you,” it’s a stupid offer and out of his mouth before he can think too hard about it.

She gives him a small smile, “You’re a good friend, Connor. You don’t need the trouble. Believe me, I have it all worked out. I’ve even managed to give you an alibi. Father won’t possibly be able to accuse you of hiding me.” Connor hadn’t considered the possibility and he can feel his stomach plummet at the unsettling thought.

“Let me hear it then,” he sighs quietly.

“It goes like this,” she begins, detailing her elaborate ruse to disappear. He has to admit it’s a good one. He supposes she learned how to strategize from her father.

“Where did you even meet these people?” Connor’s biggest hesitation about her plan is the simple fact that he doesn’t know any of the people she’s mentioned.

She chews the inside of her mouth, eyeing him warily, “You know why I could never wed a husband.”

Connor stares at her. He does know, but they’d never blatantly come out and said the words. It also doesn’t make any sense in regards to their current situation, “Yes, but I don’t see how th—”

She presses close to him as if afraid the breeze might carry her words away to prying ears, “Chloe is my Henrik.” Understanding blooms to life. This is her chance and she’s going to take it.

“With one difference,” Connor mutters darkly. “She returns your affections.”

North eyes him for a moment before countering, “Henrik didn’t reject you because he doesn’t _want _you. He doesn’t see how it’s possible without risking losing you.”

“How is that any better?” Is Connor’s grumpy retort.

North falls silent, her eyes darting back and forth in thought, “This is the last thing I have to say on the matter and then we need to get your alibi underway.”

“Which you still haven’t told me yet,” he points out and she frowns at the interruption.

“Henrik is afraid; it’s not something he’s familiar or comfortable with. You need to show him that it’s worth the risk.” Her grip on him tightens and she forces him to meet his gaze, “If you can get over being hurt, you might have a shot.”

He gapes at her, a mix of embarrassment and outrage, “He crushed me, North. He wouldn’t even let me say the words.”

Looking at her fierce face, considering the insane plan she was about to enact with only a sliver of hope for success, the words sound hollow. She’s risking everything for her chance at love. She must realize he’s come to that conclusion because she doesn’t take him to task. Instead, she whispers, “Henrik is a man of action. You might have to knock the sense into him first before he’ll listen to it.”

Connor snorts a laugh through his nostrils, “You’re not wrong.” Glancing at the sky to gauge the time, he shifts topics, “So about this alibi.”

An hour and one very public shouting match later, Connor finds himself on a saddle laden down with missives and information to take back to their home base.

“Sorry about this,” his command had muttered as he helped him ready the horse.

Connor has to fight to keep the grin from his face and blowing the whole plan, “It’s fine. I still can’t believe she wanted me to marry her. I haven’t seen her in years.”

North had performed beautifully in his opinion. Raising her voice just a touch above hysterical to gather attention without being obvious about it. She’d pushed his chest, which he hadn’t been expecting, and he’d lurched back from her.

_“You said you loved me,”_ she’d stage whispered, voice cracking.

He’d leaned back in, also whispering harshly, “I never said any such thing.”

It had devolved from there into a much larger spectacle than he’d anticipated until North’s father had to intervene. North had wrenched herself out of his grasp, turning on him.

“This is _your_ doing,” she’d stabbed her father in the breastplate with one slender finger and Connor was quietly concerned he would kill her on the spot. Before her father could do much more than blink, North had turned on her heel and marched off in the general direction of her private tent. Soldiers parted before her as if she were made of actual fire.

The end result was a very public falling out and Connor had a head start on the main army to return home.

When she’d explained her idea, she’d been quite clear on this part, “You’ll have at least a month before the rest of them return. Use it well.”

Despite her certainty of success, he can’t help but worry about her all the same. She would give him a day’s head start to ensure no accusations came his way regarding her disappearance. His second night camping alone passes slowly as sleep eludes him. He sends out a quiet wish to the stars that she gets away cleanly. She said she would write once she was safe, but he tries not to think too hard about what it means if he never hears from her again.

On the third day, he knows he’ll reach the village by nightfall and a nervous tension hums through his veins. There hadn’t been any time to write of his arrival and he’s not at all certain of what kind of welcome to expect.

The ominous feeling grows when he stables his horse for the night, locking up his armor in the supply cabinet. Sumo’s stall is empty and appears to have been that way for some time. The lights on the upper levels aren’t lit and Connor feels distinctly like a trespasser as he approaches the heavy double doors.

He’s never knocked before and he doesn’t intend to start doing so now, but foreboding coats his skin as he crosses the threshold unannounced. The house is eerily quiet and lacks the usual background noises of the few servants in Hank’s employ. Peeking into the kitchen, he’s disturbed to see the ever simmering cauldron is unlit. Touching the pot, it’s clear it hasn’t been used in at least a day if not more.

Stepping out of the gloom, he barely ducks a fist flying toward his face. Still partially in shadow, Hank doesn’t recognize him.

“You have three seconds to explain what you’re doing skulking around in my house, stranger.”

Connor swallows down a sudden burst of energy urging him to defend himself. Instead, he finds his voice and steps into the light, “It’s me, Hank.”

Hank’s face goes through a comical array of expressions: shock, confusion, and joy before settling on concern. His fingers move to Connor’s scarred brow, “What happened here?”

“A bad horse and worse luck,” he doesn’t flinch away from the touch, but Hank’s hand withdraws at his icy tone. “Where is everyone? The horses are gone.”

Hank deflates at the question and Connor tries not to assume the worst, “Away. Our son has weak lungs. The mountain air is too much for him. Flavia took him to her family. He’s doing better, but I don’t know if he’ll ever be well enough to call this place home.”

“And Ben?” Connor asks, peering around as if the jovial man will emerge from the shadows with a tray of grapes, ready to chastise Connor for not writing often enough.

“I take it that letter didn’t reach you then.” Hank sighs and Connor’s heart pounds even as his blood tries to slow to a crawl.

“Is he…” Connor can’t bring himself to say the words.

“Gods, no. He’s fine, Connor. I don’t mean to be so cryptic. He went with Flavia to ensure her safe travels. I would have gone myself, but I have orders to remain here. It’s been lonely without them, is all.” Connor tries not to bristle. Hank isn’t trying to provoke him and it’s casual enough conversation, but—

“Nice to see you, too, Hank.” His words are sharper than the blade at his side and they drive in deep as they were meant to. Even now, Connor feels invisible and he’s standing directly in front of the man.

The careful mask Hank reserves for Connor slips back into place quicker than blinking. His stance changes and he’s no longer a wounded friend in need of a kind word. He’s a centurion, a leader, and a man who doesn’t suffer backtalk without consequences.

“Do you have anything to report or did you come here to have a tantrum?” Connor recoils as if slapped. This was getting them nowhere and felt all the more like a mistake. North and her well-intentioned meddling had convinced him maybe there was a chance, but Hank isn’t willing to bend.

“The war is over,” Connor replies evenly. “The legionaries are to return home. You’re to ready the barracks. They’ll be here in four weeks’ time.”

“And what of you? What are your orders?” Connor can’t see a conceivable reason why Hank should want to know and he rankles at his prying.

“I haven’t been your concern in a long time, Henrik. Not since you shut me out.” He hadn’t meant to say the last part but his heart bleeds its rage across his tongue.

“You left me first,” Hank spits back. “Don’t think I don’t know why you switched centuries.”

Connor can feel his tenuous grip on the situation scattering like grains spilled on the floor. Squaring his shoulders, he leans into Hank’s space, “I left because you’re a _coward_.”

Hank’s face goes terrifying blank as if chiseled from stone by an artist who only vaguely knows what expression should look like. Connor has to resist the urge to step away from him.

“What did you call me?” Though he speaks quietly, Connor has no difficulty hearing him.

A wild, reckless glee thrums through his lips as he repeats the words, “A coward, Hank. You were so afraid of the idea of me you couldn’t even let me say the wor—”

The strike he’d been waiting for comes fast and sharp, but it misses its mark. Hank had aimed to backhand him and has to correct his stance from the effort of the missed swing.

Unbuckling his sword, Connor flings it to the ground before settling into a familiar guard, “You attack like a gutless rat. Are you even man enough to fight me?” Hank’s snarl is answer enough.

Hank is larger than he is by a significant degree and Connor knows he’s badly outmatched. Still, his heart roars with the thrill of the fight and he dodges another powerful strike, this time with a balled-up fist. He holds his own for several minutes, using much of Hank’s strength against him as he’d been taught through years of training.

Eventually, he makes a misstep and Hank’s shoulder rams him into the wall. Connor bounces off it with a ripping snap and it takes him a moment to realize his tunic is badly torn. Hank moves to circle around to tackle him flat to the ground, but Connor lands a well-timed jab with the heel of his palm to Hank’s nose. It isn’t broken, but Connor knows how much that injury burns.

His first significant miscalculation costs him dearly. Although Hank’s nose is likely on fire and his eyes water freely, his ability to focus is still well in place. A large fist collides with Connor’s jaw and molten pain radiates up his ear and across his face. Momentarily staggered, Hank presses his advantage.

Up against the stone wall, déjà vu seems to slow time as Connor seizes his last wild hope and kicks sharply with his spiked heel at Hank’s weak ankle. Hank goes down with a shout of pain and anger and Connor follows like a rabid animal.

It’s another error, but at least this one allows him time to think. He realizes he has Hank pinned, but his hold is tenuous at best. He can keep him there until his strength runs out, but he can’t make a move without risking a brutal attack.

Hank’s breath comes out in hot puffs across Connor’s aching jaw; he tries not to look too hard at Hank’s battered face. He wonders if he is in as bad of shape. The longer they remain locked in this awkward embrace, the more Connor can feel the fire dwindle inside him. This wasn’t how he ever imagined lying with Hank and it’s infinitely less satisfying. Without his anger, there’s only his heartache.

_If you can get over being hurt, you might have a shot._

North’s words come back to him and he has to resist the urge to groan aloud. She wasn’t wrong, but submission doesn’t come easy to soldiers and Connor is no exception. If anything, he’s just as bad as Hank when it comes to matters of the heart.

“Why did you come back?” The question catches him off guard and Connor’s fingers flex around Hank’s wrists.

When Connor does little more than stare blankly at him, Hank presses again, “Why come back if you hate me?”

Connor closes his eyes against the question. He doesn’t want to be the one to yield. He doesn’t want to be weak—not in front of Hank. He also knows in his bones that this is the last chance he’ll get. For better or worse, he knows Hank won’t stop him. Not this time.

“I don’t hate you.” His voice shakes and he despises it, but he can feel some of the tension fade from Hank’s taut muscles beneath him. “I…” he sighs out a sharp breath, trying to gather his wits. He opens his eyes warily to see an even more cautious Hank looking back up at him.

He knows Hank could throw him now if he wanted to. Connor’s grip is slack, but Hank stays still and waits for Connor’s answer. Connor swallows, “I was in love with you. And you didn’t want me. I couldn’t stay.” The sentences come out choppy and his eyes burn, but he holds Hank’s gaze.

Time seems to stand still as he waits for Hank’s answer. Air feels too large to fit in his lungs and his chest burns from disuse.

“You’re wrong.” The words come out so quiet they’re nearly a whisper. Hank pulls his arm free to reach up and thumb at the angry pink scar cleaving Connor’s eyebrow in two, “I wanted you. I couldn’t have you.”

Air forces its way back into Connor’s chest and he makes a punctured sound like a beast slain in the _venationes_, “And now?” It’s the question he’d come to ask before his emotions wrenched angry words from his tongue. Impossible to smother, hope rekindles inside his badly mangled heart.

“And now,” Hank’s hand drifts from Connor’s brow to cup his cheek. His touch is softer and gentler than Connor thought possible of a man so large, “things are different.”

Connor’s eyes drift closed as he reminds himself to breathe, “Tell me.”

Hank tries to sit up, but Connor refuses to move. He needs to know and he fears movement will shatter this fragile moment. One arm still pinned above his head beneath Connor’s grip, Hank explains in halting sentences.

_Being watched_.

_Questions about conduct._

_Rumors. _

It was worse than North had let on. Though he knew there was talk about Hank and his disinterest in women, he didn’t realize how far up the chain it went.

“It started in earnest when Benny moved in,” Hank explains with a sigh. Connor’s anger grows the longer Hank speaks. The assumptions being made about the two friends makes his blood boil.

“Things got worse when…” he fades off, but Connor’s no fool.

“Me,” he says quietly.

“You,” Hank agrees. “Your obvious crush didn’t help.” Connor scowls down at him, but Hank’s tone lacks accusation.

Irritation simmers alongside bile in Connor’s throat, “But you were never even home! You were always away fighting or—”

“The damage had been done well before you arrived at camp. It didn’t matter regardless. There are laws against it. I was your superior and they were watching us closely.” Hank’s tone is flat as if he’s had this conversation before.

Loose threads begin to weave themselves into something solid, “So you got married.” Hank nods and Connor continues, “And I asked to change centuries.” Hank nods again and a small pulse of hurt bursts behind his eyes.

“Once Flavia gave birth to our son and it became clear I wasn’t in contact with you, their interest faded. It’s been years; they dropped the official inquiry. The accuser withdrew his claim; I’m not sure where he is anymore.”

“Who?” Connor spits out the question and Hank arches an eyebrow at him.

“It’s not your fight. It’s done now.” Hank clearly had meant for his words to console, but they incense Connor’s indignation.

“It was _always_ my fight!” Hank startles at the force of Connor’s anger. He tries to brush a thumb across Connor’s cheek, but he pushes it aside. Hank flinches when Connor swoops down, his nose less than an inch away.

Connor’s fingers release Hank’s wrist in favor of weaving tightly into his hair. Meeting his shocked blue gaze, he murmurs softly, “You didn’t have to do this alone.”

He knows Hank is going to argue, that Hank always thinks his way is the best way. He’s not often wrong, but Connor doesn’t intend to give him the chance to debate it. His mouth crashes into Hank’s with the force of a cresting wave. His jaw throbs and he’s certain Hank’s nose isn’t faring any better, but his heart sings at the contact.

Still, years’ worth of anger and frustration make themselves known in the ferocity of Connor’s grip on Hank’s hair and the intensity of the press of his lips. Hank answers in kind, rolling until he’s on top and crushing Connor beneath his weight. Connor’s hips buck against the contact and Hank breaks the kiss with a guttural sound.

“Why are you stopping?” Connor’s head lurches up from the floor, chasing the broken contact of Hank’s mouth.

“Bedroom.” The word comes out husky and heavy, dispersing molten desire through Connor’s veins.

They make it to the great room before Connor snags at Hank’s wrist. Pausing to throw a questioning glance over his shoulder, he has no time to react to the feral expression on Connor’s face. Connor pushes him with more force than strictly necessary until Hank’s back is flush to the wall and their lips find each other once more.

He paws at Hank blindly as if trying to touch everything at once. He knows he is painfully lacking in experience, but lust is an effective teacher. His hand finds Hank’s firm arousal and he groans unfettered longing down the man’s throat.

He can feel Hank smirk across his lips, “Impatient?”

Connor’s body responds without thinking and he presses his hips firmly against Hank’s, “I’ve waited long enough.”

By the time they make it to the room, Connor’s neck boasts a lurid mark that’s certain to bruise and Hank’s shoulder bears indents that look suspiciously like teeth. He doesn’t remember when he lost his tunic, but Connor’s shirt still hangs in ragged tatters from their fight. The first inkling of regret hits him as he rubs the material between his forefinger and thumb. How much time had they wasted on being angry?

Connor’s hand resting over his disturbs him from his morose reverie. Connor levels a gaze at him as if reading his mind and wishing to get things back on track, “Undress me.”

It’s a simple directive and Hank’s surprised to find his hands jump into action. He’s denied his heart for so long and he wants to indulge in all of Connor’s desires. Every inch of skin reveals a new secret meant only for Hank. A freckle near Connor’s nipple that Hank wants to taste. A faded scar across Connor’s thigh begging to be touched; it slants upward and fades into nothingness inches from his swollen erection.

His eyes follow a yellowed, folded piece of parchment as it slips from the ripped toga lining. Recognizing his own writing, his eyes dart from his signature to Connor’s sensuous gaze, “You kept it.”

Seeing the letter on the floor, Connor crouches to pick it up and smooth it out on a nearby writing desk. The fingertips of one hand rest against his naked breast near his heart. He’d touched that letter every night before sleeping like a talisman. Meeting Hank’s gaze, brown eyes overflow with heavy, indescribable emotion.

“Touch me.” Connor’s voice rings out in a clear order and Hank realizes he’s been staring, but it seems too impossible to be real. Connor forces the issue when he grabs at Hank’s hand, splaying Hank’s fingers across his pale chest. It isn’t an erotic touch, but it breaks whatever invisible barrier had been rendering Hank motionless.

His hands are rough from years of wielding weapons and Connor’s skin erupts in waves of gooseflesh at Hank’s touch. Curious, he brushes over one of Connor’s nipples and is pleased when it too retracts. Hank looms across him, and Connor reclines on the bed, pulling Hank with him.

Connor’s stomach jumps when Hank reaches between his thighs for the first time and he sucks in a sharp breath when Hank’s fingers find what they’re looking for. He backs off for now, there are things they’ll need, but lust surges up the length of his shaft at Connor’s wonton reaction to the first gentle brush against his puckered entrance.

It’s give and take as they learn this new thing together. Hank knows in theory, but he’d never let his passions cross this line before. Connor is his first in this regard; he wants to do right by him. He feels awkward and cumbersome under Connor’s heated stare.

Hank may be larger than life but Connor outclasses him in grace by every possible measure. His movements, his moans, the slope of his neck—they are the fragile things Connor obscures from everyone else beneath his battle-hardened exterior. A thrum of pleasure surges across Hank’s skin like a heatwave; Connor wouldn’t let anyone else see him like this.

He tries to explain things to Connor as he tips a slender vial of oil across his hand, but Connor’s impatience interferes, “I know how it works, Hank.”

Hank arches an eyebrow, staring Connor down until a flush stains his freckled skin in an uneven spill from his forehead to his clavicles. He tilts Connor’s chin up on the tip of one oiled finger, “Do you?”

Connor mumbles an affirmative without looking at him and Hank ceases his teasing, “I didn’t want to surprise you. That’s all.”

Connor relaxes and swells up from the bed to wrap his arms around Hank’s neck. Pulling him back down, he murmurs against Hank’s ear, “Show me.”

Despite Connor’s reassurances, Hank takes his time. He watches Connor’s face at the initial penetration and he wishes he were a skilled enough artist to capture Connor’s expression at that moment. His mouth sags and his eyes drift close as a small _oh_ of surprised pleasure drips from his lips. The first time Hank’s fingertip curls, he skims across something that makes Connor convulse and seize Hank’s bicep. His eyes fly open and Hank grows still beneath that wild chestnut gaze.

“Am I hurting you?” He whispers it as if his words may break Connor worse than his hands could.

“Do it again.” Connor’s voice is firm and Hank follows the command. He’s rewarded by the boneless droop of Connor’s neck as pale flesh gleams in the moonlit room. He emits a soft sound that Hank’s never heard him make before but desperately wants to hear again.

He’s on the verge of repeating the motion when Connor rises to grip Hank’s hair, forcing him to meet his gaze, “Don’t stop.”

Connor’s body accepts a second finger with surprising ease and he cries out a desperate, wordless sound when Hank resumes stroking at the spot that makes Connor writhe and moan. The added pressure threatens to break him, but Connor chases after the sensation and takes himself in hand.

“Another,” Connor pants as he strokes himself slowly. Hank can’t tear his eyes away from the lewd display of Connor’s undulating hips.

Still, he hesitates, “Are you sure?”

Connor opens his eyes to give Hank a half-lidded gaze, “I’ve seen you.” His eyes drift to the flushed, leaking head of Hank’s cock. Meeting Hank’s gaze once more, he repeats the directive, “Another.”

Lost in sensation, Connor misses the pleased smirk on Hank’s face. Even so, he can hear it in his words, “As you wish.”

Connor’s mouth drops open, ready to respond in annoyance when the press of a third finger forces his head back around a moan.

Connor’s hand ceases its stroking in favor of gripping at the bedding. His breathing turns ragged and his molten gaze is enough to still Hank’s fingers. When he speaks, desire twines around his one-word directive, “Enough.”

Connor’s hand reaches out and Hank leans into the touch. He goes down easily at Connor’s tugging, accepting a kiss that’s both needy and demanding. Connor’s fingers find Hank’s before guiding him to his flushed cock.

Connor arches up into Hank’s chest at the first stroke with a quiet, shuddering gasp. Hank changes his grip, slowing his pace, and Connor whines as his grasp on control slackens. Connor’s fingers find Hank’s hair as their mouths crash together and Connor’s next moan reverberates against Hank’s lips before disappearing into his mouth. Every sound that Connor makes is like music and Hank wants to play him until he’s out of tune.

Hank’s touch is teasing and his own ignored cock aches and pleads for action, but still, he waits. As much as he wants to bury himself inside Connor, he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of the sounds he makes.

“_Hank_.” Connor all but whimpering his name gets his attention. His voice is racked with needy desperation.

“Ok,” Hank mutters into Connor’s hair before rising to retrieve the oil. Connor starts to roll, but Hank stops him with one large hand pressed against his stomach.

“I want to see you,” he says in response to Connor’s questioning look. Connor tries to relax against the mattress, but Hank snags him by the ankle, dragging him to the end of the bed. Connor flushes when Hank widens his stance and shoulders one of his legs, spreading him open.

The first press of Hank’s slicked cockhead against him sends a shot of electricity through his body. He bears down without thinking, fucking himself onto Hank’s shaft. They moan each other’s names in unison when the head slips through the tightly muscled ring of Connor’s hole.

Hank withdraws slowly, setting an easy rhythm as he inches deeper. He’s about halfway in when his cock drags against the spot that makes Connor convulse without fail. With a wicked grin, he saws against it without relenting. Connor’s hips jerk and Hank pins them to the bed with a bruising grip. Connor’s fingers lock around Hank’s wrists as he gasps and moans through the sensual onslaught. _Don’t stop_ remains a constant directive on his lips.

Hank can feel the mounting pressure behind his balls and he knows he needs to slow down if he wants this to last. Even so, Connor falling apart around him is an intoxicating sight he’s not ready to let go of just yet.

Withdrawing to the tip, he sinks in until his hips are flush to Connor’s ass. He slows his pace, working Connor’s dick in time with his thrusts. At the first sharp snap of his hips, Connor howls Hank’s name. He can tell from the wild look that ripples across Hank’s face that he’s sealed his fate.

Hank picks up a punishing pace that punches the air from Connor’s lungs. Snatching at Connor’s other leg braced against the bed, Hank wraps an arm around both. Ankles crossed and resting against one of Hank’s shoulders, the pressure surging through his veins reaches critical levels. Dancing dangerously close to the edge of falling apart, Connor’s defenses shatter when Hank tightens his grip.

Warm white release spirals up his shaft before exploding over Hank’s fist. Hank continues pistoning into him, fucking him through it, and Connor sobs out an overwrought sound at the final slam of Hank’s hips. Some of Hank’s spend trickles out around his still pulsing cock, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Connor makes a wounded sound when Hank pulls out and winces at Hank’s gentle touch to his puffy hole. Concern lines Hank’s face as he tries his best to clean them up with the torn edge of Connor’s tunic.

“Are you alright?” Hank reaches out to touch Connor’s chest and can feel his heart hammering beneath his skin. Blinking open his eyes, Hank would guess that Connor is drunk if he didn’t know any better.

“Kiss me.” The tight knot of concern loosens in Hank’s chest at the return of Connor’s mouthy demands. Collapsing heavily onto the bed, Connor’s body tilts toward Hank’s heavier weight. He presses a kiss to the scar on Connor’s brow, making him scowl, “Not what I meant.”

“I know,” Hank mutters smugly before giving Connor what he’s after. Neither show any inclination to move; with night fully descended, it isn’t long before both men fall into any easy sleep.

Hank awakes hours later to a blackened room and an empty bed. Padding barefoot through the halls, he finds Connor in the spiral tower, staring out at the camp in the distance. He doesn’t turn when Hank clears his throat.

“What happens now?” He asks the question with his face turn toward the stars and Hank can hear the hurt in his voice. Before Hank can answer, Connor continues, “I don’t see how it will work. We have a month until the _cohort_ returns and then what? How am I supposed to be near you when I can’t touch you?”

With his back to him, Connor can’t see Hank’s soft smile.

“My last letter to you—”

“Your second letter,” Connor interrupts, clearly trying to pick a fight. Hank ignores the thorns firing from Connor’s tongue.

“It had a lot of information in it. There have been several developments you aren’t aware of.” Connor turns to look at him and realizes for the first time that Hank had been wearing his _civitas_ toga when he’d arrived. Not his military tunic.

Connor’s eyes go wide, but he remains silent as Hank continues, “My last battle, it was decisive in more ways than one.”

He produces a stamped letter, but Connor can’t absorb the words. He doesn’t need to. Every soldier recognizes a _missio causaria_.

“What happened?” His eyes dart all over Hank’s body looking for a career-ending injury.

Hank gestures at the ankle Connor had crushed shortly after arriving and he blanches, “Didn’t you find it odd that I went down so easily?”

“Oh, fuck. Oh—Hank, I—” Hank holds out a hand to stop Connor’s babbling.

“A horse fell on me. Broke my ankle to the point of ruin. I’ve been home recovering for the past several months. I received official word a few weeks ago.” Hank waits for his words to sink into Connor’s ears, but a strange buzzing prevents him from digesting them.

Blinking unevenly, Connor mutters, “So. You’re…you’re not?” He asks the unfinished question already knowing the answer.

“I’ll still receive benefits in recognition of my service and valor, but it’s not enough to fully retire. I’m not ready for that anyway. I can’t fight like I used to, but I’m not useless. There’s talk of smithing. It’s what I did back home.”

Hope, eternal and impossibly bright, flares inside Connor’s chest, “You’ll still be near?”

Hank gives him a crooked grin with a hint of his tooth gap on display, “I’m finalizing an agreement with the _Primus Pilus_. We’ve soldiered together since I joined twelve years ago. If all goes well, I’ll have an exclusive contract with your _cohort_.”

Ever the pessimist, Connor finds the flaw in the plan, “That doesn’t change the law. We won’t be free to—”

Hank’s hand presses to Connor’s lips, silencing him, “You’ve never known a time without war. Your days are about to become very dull with little training. Until our next enemy makes the mistake of poking a stick at us, you’ll have to find new work as well.”

Connor stares at him blankly, realizing he’s right, “Well, shit. I don’t have a job.”

Turning Connor to face him straight on, Hank pins him between his chest and the tower wall, “As it turns out, my contract with the army is pretty large. Weapons need fixing or replacing and there’s too much work for one man.”

Connor laughs and tries to push Hank off him, but he pins him in place with his hips, “Hank, you can’t be serious. I don’t know anything about smithing.”

Heat surges to Connor’s cheeks at Hank’s answering smile. He leans in as if to share a secret and his lips brush against the shell of Connor’s ear, “I could teach you.”

Connor shivers at his tone and the long-repressed parts of him wildly urge him to take Hank back to bed. His aching body convinces him that may be a bad idea. A certain appendage doesn’t quite get the message and Hank growls out a pleased sound when he feels the growing bulge pressing into him.

“Should I take that as a yes?” His hands toy with the folds of Connor’s borrowed toga and Connor flaps his hands in panic.

“Yes to the work. No to _that_.” Hank laughs easily and retracts his hands. “Not that I’m—I’m just, ah, out of service for the time being.” Hank chuckles heartily at that and Connor huffs, “If you’re so ready for another romp, maybe you’d like to be on the receiving end.” He expects Hank to shrink away from the lewd offer. He does not expect him to fix him with a mildly amused stare.

“My _dulcissimus mel_,” blood infuses Connor’s cheeks like wine spilled across a sun-bleached tablecloth at the endearment. He nearly chokes when Hank continues, “I’m a lot of man. I’m not certain you could handle me.”

When Connor recovers, Hank leads him back inside. There are several more hours before sunrise and the complications of their situation can wait until then. For now, he wants to remember how it feels to hold Connor without the pretense of keeping him warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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